


One Hundred Sleepless Nights

by BleedingInk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Insomnia, M/M, Megstiel - Freeform, PA!Meg, Writer!Castiel, alternative universe, previous destiel, twist and shout references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingInk/pseuds/BleedingInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the magazine where she worked goes bankrupt, Meg Masters ends up working as reclusive writer Castiel Novak's personal assistant. Her boss is cold and distant, but she's just fine with it: she has enough problems dealing with her dysfunctional family, her overworked boyfriend and her utter inability to get some sleep at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ill-Timed Sleeping Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't be scared by the Major Character Death tag, the death happens off-screen before the story begins, and this one character is still dealing with the aftermath.

****  
  


What had she gotten herself into?

As her (hopefully) future boss stared at her with his piercing blue eyes and a stern expression, Meg couldn't help but to ask herself if she truly was desperate enough to accept this job.

The answer, of course, was yes, yes, she was.

"I want this to be very clear, Miss Masters," he said. "I like things done a certain way, and I expect you to respect the boundaries I set. My last assistant, Becky... well, she was overtly enthusiastic, to say the least."

What kind of asshole fired somebody for being overtly enthusiastic? Meg swallowed her opinion and just nodded.

"I understand, Mr. Novak," she said, in her most polite tone.

"You are to answer my phone calls, my emails, and receive all... unexpected visits that may show up at my apartment," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Novak," Meg said, thinking the man didn't look like the type to receive any visits at all, let alone unexpected ones.

"You are to pay my bills, buy my groceries, do any research I need, and make sure Misha is fed and cared for," he added.

"Misha?" Meg repeated. As if to answer, a big white cat with eyes as blue as his owner's jumped into the couch and hissed at her. "Oh. Cute."

"A woman named Missouri comes to clean, cook and do the laundry three times a week," Mr. Novak added, which was a relief, because Meg couldn't cook to save her life. "But apart from that, I expect you to do anything else I might require. But first and foremost," Mr. Novak took off his glasses as if he wanted to emphasize that point, "you are to make sure I am not interrupted while I'm writing."

They stared at each other from both sides of the room; Castiel Novak, best-selling novelist with enough money to pay somebody to do all the petty little things the rest of the mortals had to do themselves, and Meg Masters, his brand new personal assistant. Her boyfriend would have chuckled at the title. Meg knew he thought she was little more than a glorified secretary, and maybe he was right, but it wasn’t like she had any other abilities and the pay Novak was offering wasn’t bad either. At least it was way above what she got at her old job, where she was paid just enough to pretend she wasn’t some sort of slave.

Also, it wasn't like she woke up one day and decided to take the most humiliating job in the world for kicks. Meg Masters had dreams, she had hopes. She had graduated with a major in fashion design and a portfolio as thick as any of Castiel Novak’s books, and when they hired her at _Vanguard_ with only twenty-three years old, she'd felt like she was touching her sky. She had fantasized about runways, and going to Paris, and having music icons and movie stars wearing her dresses in the red carpet while the press commented on this young designer who had taken the fashion world by storm.

Well, the closest she'd got to that was that one time Ava, _Vanguard_ 's editor in chief and her boss, had concerted an interview with a new fashion designer, only to discard the article in favor of one that explored what dear old Louis Vuitton was doing.

And then some asshole banker in Wall Street had bought a thing he wasn't supposed to buy, and all the country's economy had gone to hell, taking _Vanguard_ down with it.

At first Meg had thought "Good riddance!" because after five years of carrying increasingly demeaning tasks for Ava, she was all but sad to finally have the chance to actually dedicate some time to her career as a fashion designer.

Except she didn't have a career as a fashion designer.

But she still had bills and student loans to pay while that launched.

"You should move in with me," Luc, her boyfriend, had told her. "At least it would save you some rent."

Meg had fought tooth and nail, insisting that she was fine, that she had some money saved and she could manage until something came up. But then, nothing came up, and six months later she was moving all her things into Luc's apartment. Six months later still, with a acquiescence that was anything but peaceful, she had started dropping resumes and calling people, asking if they knew of a job that could use her skills, which were, pretty much, doing everything she was told efficiently and quickly.

She was literally scrapping the bottom of her phone book when she'd found Sam Winchester's number. She hadn't talked to him since he broke up with her sister Ruby in no amiable terms, and it was only out of the deepest despair that she had contacted him.

"Well, I might know of something," Sam had said after the initial surprise of hearing Meg's voice had worn off. "A friend of mine, he is in need of a secretary of sorts."

"The term is personal assistant," she’d groaned.

"Yeah, well, you interested or not?"

Meg had swallowed the bitter answer she had prepared, and wrote down Castiel Novak's info.

"Isn't that the weird antisocial writer?" Luc had asked, and Meg had shrugged. At this point, she was willing to work hugging cactuses if it meant not having to call her father or (she'd shuddered at the thought) her mother for money.

The voice that’d answered her was croaky and rough, and articulated its words so thoughtfully Meg was tempted to ask the guy if he’d rather her call again when his throat was less soar. She would later learn that was just how Mr. Novak talked.

"I would prefer to have this conversation face to face," Mr. Novak had said. "Which day is convenient to you?"

"Any day you prefer," she’d replied. She was in no position to play hard to get.

And so, there she was, on that brilliant Thursday morning, at her would-be boss’ loft. He’d offered her a cup of coffee that probably came of one of those super fancy machines that were as expensive as her TV, and they’d sat in a pair of spotless white leather chairs, in the spotless living room with its spotless creamy walls and its spotless pictures of sunbathed landscapes and mountains.

Meg was positively feeling a growing headache in the back of her eyes from all the clear colors and the light coming from the window, and she couldn’t help but to wonder if Novak had decorated the place himself or if he had hired the world's most compulsive-obsessive interior designer. It was all too cold and impersonal, but then again, the writer steamed correctness and tidiness, with his black hair firmly pressed against his skull and a clean blue tie Meg suspected was not the most expensive of his wardrobe.

He hadn’t even looked at her resume before he started listing all the things he expected of her. Meg got the message loud and clear: he could get any other person to do the job, if she proved not to be what he was looking for.

Once he was done, he fixed his icy blue eyes on her face so unyieldingly it made her feel uncomfortable, like he was reading her mind and judging her for all the things he would find there. She stared back nonetheless. She had never in her life passed up a challenge, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“When do I begin?” she asked, when it became obvious he was expecting some sort of answer.

"You will start this Monday," he said, and again, he made it sound like he was defying her to show up. "I expect you to be here from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, Monday to Friday."

"Sounds reasonable," Meg accepted.

She stood up, and they shook hands. Novak’s grip was tight and dry, and Meg had to tilt her head back slightly, since he was much taller than she was.

"I will see you then, Megan."

* * *

 

Meg came back home with an empty hole in the pit of her stomach that kept increasing as she climbed the two sets of stairs to Luc’s apartment. She knew she had some hard nights ahead of her, as she would have to fight against her ill-timed sleeping habits.

It had been like that since was little: she never had a sense of discipline when it came to bedtime to begin with, and then, on periods of stress, like finals coming on or Ava announcing a downsizing, it just got worse and worse. For some reason, her mind seemed to light up at the time where the rest of the world was sound asleep, and she opened her eyes so full of energy it was impossible to shut it down. She finally crashed when the rest of the normal people was starting to wake up, or she just stayed up to go to classes or work (thank God for caffeine pills and energy drinks). Luc insisted she should see a doctor about it, but Meg had come to accept her insomnia as part of herself. It was simply the way her brain was wired.

It’d gotten worse during the past year, since she had been able to indulge in it because she didn’t have a boss who demanded her to be awake and alert. But now that Novak expected her at an early hour, she’d need to be up and about pretty early, so she might as well use the weekend to try and start some sort of rational sleeping schedule.

And she knew just exactly how to do it.

She bought some instant pasta (she only had to microwave it, marvels of the modern world), lit some candles and put on her red lace underwear under the short black dress she knew Luc liked. She put special attention to her make up and her hair, smoking her brown eyes to make them look bigger, and tying her dark brown hair in an elaborated pony tail. She gave herself one last approving look in the mirror, and went to sit in the couch to wait for Luc to come home.

And she waited.

She took off her heels after a while. She wasn’t going to need them anyway.

And then she waited some more.

She never really noticed how comfortable the armrest was. It wouldn’t hurt anybody if she just closed her eyes for a second, would it?

Two hours later, the phone rang, startling her. She had been dozing off on the couch without even realizing it. She scrambled to her feet, but by the time she reached, the answering machine was already beeping.

“Hey, it’s me,” Luc said. “I’m sorry. There was an emergency and I totally lost track of time. I’m gonna be crashing at Zeke’s place, so don’t wait up for me. I mean, if you can help it,” he chuckled. “I’m sorry. I know you probably wanted to tell me how the interview went, but, oh, well… you can tell me tomorrow. Good night.”

Well, that was a disappointing turn of events.

It wasn’t the first time Luc crashed at Zeke’s, and Meg suspected it had something to do with being able to spend a whole night without waking up to find his unemployed girlfriend sat in front of the TV at four o’clock in the morning. But this was the fifth time this month. And it was the first time he announced it via voicemail.

And it was also the first time he didn’t added an ‘I love you’ at the end of it.

But it wasn’t the first time Meg felt like they were more like roommates who occasionally fucked than two people in a committed emotional relationship.

Trying not to make much of it, she threw away the pasta (she’d wash the dishes in the morning; or at the dead of night when the bed became too big and too empty to remain there), turned off the candles, and found the granny panties and the old AC/DC shirt she wore when she knew she would be having an uphill battle against Morpheus.

She turned and twirled until the sheets were tangled around her legs, rearranged the pillows in a thousand different ways, and counted more livestock than there was in the world.

At the crack of dawn, when Luc tiptoed into the apartment and kissed her in the cheek, Meg was still awake; but kept her eyes closed and didn’t move until he was out of the bedroom and making some coffee. She somberly wondered how she was supposed to survive her first week of work at this pace.


	2. That Can't End Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Twist and Shout in this chapter, because it's the most emotionally scarring story I could think of.

“Well, I don’t see how that job is going to help you get ahead in life. You need to start thinking bigger, Meg.”

Meg rubbed her eyes, regretting the call already. Lilith, her mother, was reacting exactly the way she expected her to react: sneering at her and her decisions, insisting that she was belittling herself by taking a job she very much needed, and insinuating that maybe, if Meg wasn’t so stubborn and let Lilith and Crowley help her out…

“I don’t know what your husband has to do with any of this,” said Meg, coolly.

She had an ongoing hostility with her second stepfather that usually drove the rest of the family nuts. It wasn’t her fault. If the Scottish asshole could stop mentioning how shallow and vapid Meg was for studying _fashion_ , maybe she would be able to extend him the same courtesy about the medical procedure he’d had to enlarge his…

“I thought you didn’t want to be a personal assistant anymore,” Lilith cut off her train of thought.

“No, mother, of course I didn’t _want_ to,” said Meg.

“Then, why are you doing it?” Lilith asked. Her voice had become soft and persuasive, the same voice she used to make when she was trying to convince ten-year-old Meg to stop eating candy or seventeen-year-old Meg to stay at home instead of going to a rock show. “You are young; you should be following your dream.”

“Well, following my dream is not going to be of much use if I starve to death halfway there.”

“You’re talking like a defeatist, Megan,” said Lilith, this time in a more severe tone. “You know I don’t tolerate defeatism.”

‘Defeatism’ was one of her mother’s favorite words. She used to toss it around a lot when Meg and Ruby were growing up, and back then, it sounded big and threatening. Now it was just tiresome.

“It’s not defeatism, mother,” sighed Meg. “It’s realism. I can’t follow my dream, or whatever, if I don’t have a safety net of money to afford living.”

“Oh, sweetie,” said Lilith. “You know, Fergus and I don’t mind…”

“I _really_ have to go now,” she said. She didn’t even bother to make an excuse: two mentions of Crowley in one conversation were two too many in her book.

“What does your father have to say about this?” Lilith asked.

“You know he never says much of anything. Goodbye, mother.”

She hung up the phone, thinking the mention of her father was pretty low. Azazael was somewhere in the world, writing his latest travelling guide, and although he sporadically sent e-mails or souvenirs to let his daughters know he was still alive (last time had been a miniature plastic platypus from Australia); Meg felt like it had been years since she had actually spoke to him. When she had e-mailed him about her new job, he answered with a plain “Congratulations!” and a download link to one of Novak’s book, which made her think he had not quite understood what she was telling him.

It was still a whole lot more of enthusiasm than what she got from Luc.

“Well,” he had said, rubbing his temples. “At least maybe you’ll sleep better.”

Meg had been tempted to pick up a fight, to force him to show some kind of emotion, to ask him if he really wanted her there at all, because honestly, he knew what he was getting himself into when he asked her to move in, but if her insomnia was such a problem to him, she could just get her own apartment where she could stay up until the fucking sunrise if she wanted to. She had a job now. She could pay for it.

Instead, she’d agreed halfheartedly and then went to bed without kissing him goodnight. She didn’t know why she’d bothered. She was up again two hours later.

So, except for the exclamation mark in her father’s e-mail, the most positive reaction Meg got was from her sister.

“Oh, my God!” Ruby yelled in her ear. “Castiel Novak?! Really? I love him! I read his book while I was in Salvation, and I swear, I cried like a baby.”

Meg didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d cried a lot while she was in Salvation. In fact, Ruby cried a lot, period. It was one of her favorite activities, like their mother’s use of the word ‘defeatism’ and their father’s long, empty silences. Lilith pushed, Azazael disappeared, Ruby cried and Meg lost sleep wondering what the hell went wrong with her life. Those were the Masters for you.

“Will you ask him to sign a book for me?” said Ruby. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I heard he’s a very private person. Or maybe that’s just an Internet rumor. Is he private?”

“He’s… quiet,” said Meg, feeling like she was making the understatement of the century.

“Oh, my God,” Ruby repeated. “I’m so happy for you. I’m so happy you got an exciting job. Is it exciting? I’m sure it’s exciting.”

 

* * *

 

Of all the adjectives, in all of the languages, in all of the world; ‘exciting’ was probably the last one Meg would have chosen to describe her job.

She showed up exactly at eight on Monday (her second cup of coffee still in her hand), and had to wait around half an hour at the door before Novak opened. He seemed surprised, like he had completely forgotten who she was or what was she doing there.

“Good morning, Mr. Novak,” she said, trying to sound professional and not like she was super irritated from having to wake up to the cold autumn breeze to stand in the hallway like an idiot and get the evil eye from an elderly neighbor who went out to walk a mean-spirited Chihuahua that barked at her ferociously.

“Ah, yes, Megan,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Yes. Come in.”

Gone was the tidy, ultra-correct man that had interviewed her the previous Thursday. Instead, today Novak was barefoot and sporting a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt that had definitely known better days. His raven hair was pointing in every direction and Meg noticed there were deep, violet circles beneath his eyes.

“I am sorry about this,” he said, and didn’t specify if he meant his aspect or having Meg waiting outside for so long, while he guided her inside the kitchen. “I was working late last night. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I’ve already had some,” said Meg, showing him her Starbucks extra large cup.

“I believe I might have overestimated my abilities when I told you to come at eight,” he said. “Maybe nine would be a more appropriate hour.”

“Whatever you see fit,” Meg answered, trying not to show the elation she felt at that news.

“I will also give you a key, so you let yourself in, in case I am not presentable.”

That was weird. This was the second time she saw the guy, how could he know she wasn’t going to come into his home and steal that super fancy coffee maker? Not that she would. But she was tempted to.

“This way, if you please.”

Novak led her through a corridor with more creamy walls and more sunbathed landscapes to a pretty cozy office, with a light brown desk, a laptop and a wireless phone. There was (of course) a picture of a beach with a calm sea right in front of the desk and more leather chairs. At least the walls weren’t creamy, but of a calming baby blue.

“That is the library,” Novak pointed to a white double door at the left. “That is where I work. As I have told you, it’s vital that I am not interrupted while I write. My new book is at a very early stage, and it is crucial I focus solely on it.”

“Yes, Mr. Novak,” said Meg, trying her hardest not to imprint a sarcastic tone on her voice. Honestly, how hard sitting and writing everyday could really be?

Novak gave her a suspicious look, like he could sense what she was thinking, and continued to explain that Becky had left everything she needed to know (deadlines, e-mail passwords, unpaid bills, important numbers from important people) in the diary on top of her desk, where she was to write down who called, what for and what to tell them (this to be instructed by him at the end of the day before she left).

“Any questions?” asked Novak.

“I think I can handle myself,” said Meg, smiling confidently.

Novak glared at her again, muttered an icy “Very well”, and then disappeared behind the white doors.

And that was pretty much all Meg saw of her boss on the first day. He didn’t even pop his head out at noon to ask her to get to the other side of town to buy him a ridiculously expensive lunch and then get mad at her when it arrived cold, like Ava did. Instead, he pretty much left her alone to figure out her predecessor’s neat and small handwriting on the diary.

There was a page dedicated to Mr. Novak’s business contacts (Naomi Ruthson, his agent, and Charles Shurley, his editor, were the more prominent names), another to Mr. Novak’s family (apparently, Novak had three brothers and a sister that didn’t call a lot), and another one for his “acquaintances” (because of course a guy like Novak would have “acquaintances” and not friends). Meg was surprised to find Sam Winchester’s name there, wondering how the little pompous law student she remembered had come to know the writer. There was also Novak’s doctor, accountant, lawyer and Misha’s vet’s number (speaking of which, where was the damn cat anyway?).

Novak also had an e-mail account she was supposed to run, and a Twitter account that didn’t show any signs of activity when she searched for it, although he had some followers.

Around ten, a large black woman showed up at her office, and stared at her from the door.

“You are the new one?” she asked.

“I’m Meg,” she introduced herself with a smile. “You must be Missouri.”

“I am,” the woman said. “Is he in there?” she asked, pointing at the doors.

“Mr. Novak said he doesn’t want to be disturbed,” said Meg, happy to finally be able to use the phrase she had been rehearsing in her head. “Apparently, he is at a very crucial stage of his new book.”

“That means he’s snoring on his desk and hasn’t written a single word yet,” Missouri snickered.

Meg decided she liked her.

* * *

 

The first week of work went on without any incidents. There were no calls, no e-mails, no bills, not a damn thing. Novak sent her to buy a couple of notebooks and some pens on Tuesday (Meg knew exactly the kind of notebook he wanted because Becky had been kind enough to write it down as well), and that was all. She probably would have died of boredom if it hadn’t been for Missouri and her insistence at having lunch and coffee together when she was done with her chores.

“I’m telling you, Cas is not difficult at all,” she said that Friday, while she taught Meg how to use the coffee maker, and Meg commented how different this was from her job at _Vanguard_ , where everything was an organized chaos, and sometimes not so organized. “You just leave him alone with his notebooks and he’ll let you do anything you want. That was the mistake Becky made. She was on his back all day long. _‘Do you need anything, Mr. Novak?’, ‘Can I do anything for you, Mr. Novak?’_ It drove him insane.”

“I bet the Twitter account was her idea,” Meg pointed.

“Oh, the Twitter account!” Missouri raised her eyes to the ceiling and grimaced, like she was having a flashback from war. “That was the last straw. I mean, the guy doesn’t even read his fan mail; he sure as hell won’t talk to his readers on a goddamn website.”

“He has fan mail?” Meg asked, surprised. If Novak’s writing was anything like the man, she couldn’t imagine anyone without one or two English majors particularly enjoying it; her sister’s crying notwithstanding.

“Oh, yes, tons of it,” said Missouri. “They write him letters because they know he won’t touch a computer with a ten foot pole, and he still refuses to read them. Becky kept them all in one of the desk’s drawers. They’re probably still there, gathering dust.”

She pursed her lips, like the sole _idea_ of dust in a house that _she_ cleaned was offensive.

Meg’s curiosity was aroused, so when Missouri left, she started going through the drawers. Indeed, she found a lot of envelopes, most of them still sealed, from all over the country, and even from across the pond. Meg chose ten of them haphazardly, and hesitated. Wasn’t opening them like a federal crime or something? But, oh, well, Missouri had said he had no intentions of reading them anyway. Who was she hurting, really?

The first letter was from a woman in Minnesota, and was pretty basic: she told him how much she had enjoyed his book, how she had laughed, and feared for the characters, and cried at the ending. Meg imagined her as a slightly overweight housewife, probably bored enough to pick up Novak’s book at random in the library.

The second one was pretty much the same: laughter, and dread, and crying, plus a commentary on the beautiful use of symbolism and the harsh social criticism the book contained. This reader signed only as “G.”, which was incredibly pretentious. The tone of the letter also suggested someone over-educated, more in accordance to what Meg imagined was Novak’s readership: a pipe-smoking, vest-wearing college professor who saw symbolism and social criticism in practically everything.

After three or four letters which went all more or less the same way, Meg found one that really shocked her. It was from a teenager in Illinois, who wrote that Novak’s book made him (laugh, and dread, and cry) gather the courage to finally come out of the closet. The boy had been severely depressed thinking his friends and family wouldn’t accept him, and although his problems hadn’t completely vanished, of course, he was happy to finally be true to himself, and hoped that one day he’d find someone to love just as much the characters in the book loved each other. He ended with effusive thanks, assuring that Novak had saved his life.

“Everything alright, Megan?”

Her boss’ gruff voice startled her. She hastily tried to return the letters to their drawer.

“Oh, those,” Novak said, with indifference. “Becky systematically refused to get rid of them. Perhaps you could do that now.”

“You mean you don’t want to read them?” Meg asked. She still had the letter of the boy in her hand. “This one…”

“I don’t really care for them,” Novak shrugged. “You decide what’s best to do. Good evening, Megan.”

* * *

 

Meg’s journey back home was full of contained anger and frustration. Okay, maybe Novak wasn’t that much of a snobbish writer, given the wide range of people who seemed to be reading him, but the fact that he didn’t even bother acknowledge them!

“How arrogant can he be?” she told indignantly at Luc, while they munched their Chinese takeaway in front of the TV. “I mean, if a patient goes to you and wants to shake your hand for saving them from a heart attack, the least you can do is look them in the eye and say ‘You’re welcome’.”

“It’s hardly the same thing, Meg,” said Luc, leaving the rest of his food on the coffee table. “I don’t want to talk about your boss anymore…”

He started nibbling her ear, but Meg was way too furious to react.

“It is the same thing!” she insisted. She couldn’t exactly explain how, but to her, it was.

Luc groaned and tried softly rubbing her leg to entice her. “How about we tuck in early?” he asked in a whisper. “Maybe I can help you get some sleep tonight…”

Meg sighed, and thought the prospect of sex and a couple of extra hours in bed since she didn’t have to wake up early didn’t sound all that bad.

“You go ahead,” she said. “I’m gonna clean this up, okay?”

“M’okay,” Luc muttered and left for the bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, when Meg followed him thinking about giving him a striptease, she found him on top of the covers in nothing but his boxers, snoring like he had a bulldozer stuck in his throat.

Well, fuck.

She considered waking him up, but chose not to. After all, it was no wonder the guy couldn’t keep his yes opened. She knew he was being exploited at the clinic, and he also had a hell lot to study and was spending hours at the library with Zeke. In fact, this had been the first dinner this week that he managed to eat at home, and she had spent the whole of it nagging and bitching about her boss.

Still moping at the lost chance, Meg made some tea and turned on her laptop because suddenly she was feeling terribly awake. She checked her e-mails, but she hadn’t received anything new since her father’s one-worded message. She opened it, and stared at the link for ten entire seconds before clicking it.

The book had the covers scanned, and Novak looked a little off in the picture that accompanied the synopsis. It took Meg a couple of minutes to realize it was because not only he seemed much younger, but he was also smiling. The author’s biography said this had been Novak’s third novel and the most successful both critically and financially. It was about a medicine student, Misha (which came first, the cat or the character? It was impossible to tell) who fell in love with a motorcycle rider, Jensen. Right before Vietnam War.

“Oh, that can’t end well,” Meg told the empty apartment as she began reading.

It didn’t end well.

It ended so, so much worse.

It was so bad, in fact, that when Luc woke up the following morning, he found his girlfriend in front of the computer, sobbing loudly over five empty cups of tea, clutching several used tissues and cursing her boss with all the worst of her vocabulary.


	3. Lilith Master's School of Making a Scene to Get Away With Mine

“Is there anything wrong, Megan?”

Novak was glancing at her from the threshold of his white doors. His hair was all in disarray again, and he was wearing a simple white shirt and jeans. He looked all calm and poised, like he didn’t have a worry in the world, and Meg wanted to scream at him: “Yes, there is something wrong, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” and tell him how every second of sleep was precious to her, yet she’d still stayed up all night to finish his stupid book, how embarrassing it had been to explain to Luc she was crying her eyes out over a fictional gay couple, and how he had managed to ruin both her weekend and her love for Elvis music simultaneously.

Instead, she gave him her best professional smile.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Novak,” she said, and started listing all the people who had tried to communicate with him while he was at his desk planning a new way to emotionally scar unsuspecting people. It had been a busy day: there’d been two calls. “You brother Michael’s secretary left a message. She said he wants to know if you’ll be going home for Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Novak repeated, a little irritated. “It’s barely October…”

“It’s November, Mr. Novak,” Meg pointed.

“Oh,” said Novak, surprised. “I thought it was getting unusually chilly.”

Meg decided not to make any comment about this.

“Mrs. Naomi Ruthson called as well,” she continued. “She wants you to write her an e-mail informing her if there has been any progress with the outline…”

“Oh, yes, the outline,” he groaned. “How do they expect me to know what’s going to happen in the story if I hadn’t written it yet? How am I supposed to write freely if I have to stick to a plan? She knows better than to ask me that.”

“Beats me, Mr. Novak,” said Meg, and she waited. Novak stared back at her, with a frown of confusion.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“No, that’s all,” said Meg. “Do you want me to write that to Mrs. Ruthson?”

“Tell her to fuck off. Write whatever you need to get her off my back,” he said, and Meg had to resist the impulse to slap him in the face and scream at him that the poor woman was just trying to do her damn job, and that she pitied the fool who had the bad luck to correct his books.

“And to your brother?”

“What about my brother?” asked Novak, defensively.

“Christmas?” Meg reminded him, and Novak rubbed his temple with the most melodramatic grimace she’d ever seen.

“Right, _that_ ,” he said, with the tone of voice of a man who was being forced to choose between hanging and the electric chair. “I am very much tempted to say I have too much work to do, but that would imply I am actually working and therefore force me to deal with Naomi. So yes, tell him I will be going. And please make the necessary reservations before you leave.”

“Yes, Mr. Novak,” said Meg.

Novak left the office (very likely to make himself a cup of coffee with his sci-fi coffee maker), and Meg started searching for airlines and plane tickets.

“I guess we’re talking first class here?” she asked Misha. The cat was resting in one of the arm chairs, and raised his head with a frown that was very similar to his masters’. He obviously didn’t like to have his third nap of the day interrupted by random stupid questions from the peasant who cleaned his litter box and drove him to the vet to have his hair trimmed.

Meg was tempted to put the prick of her boss in tourist class, but at the last minute, she remembered she needed the job. But she still took the liberty to pour all her contained cynicism into the e-mail she wrote to his agent:

_“Mr. Novak is convinced that despite the several and fruitful years you have been working with him, you are still unfamiliar with the nuances of his creative process, as he believes outlines to be constrictive and futile. He politely asked me to tell you to stop beleaguering him about such a mundane issue, and also, that the manuscript will suffer a slight postponement since his newfound holiday spirit compels him to spend the last weeks of December in Los Angeles, enjoying the charming weather and the irreplaceable company of his siblings. Doubtless, in such optimal conditions, he will find the inspiration he very much needs to move this project forwards.”_

She reread it a couple of times, corrected a word or two to make it sound even more ostentatious and rigid, and then sent it. Naomi answered a minute later, with an obviously annoyed:

_“I can see why he hired you.”_

And Meg regretted nothing.

* * *

 

Luc and Meg were supposed to spend Thanksgiving with his family, but at the last minute, a freaky snowstorm fell on the city (it wasn’t even officially winter yet!), getting a lot of flights cancelled. Meg made a joke about this somehow being Luc’s mother’s fault (she might have compared her to the White Witch of Narnia), but he didn’t find it funny.

“If you didn’t want to come, you could have just said so,” he snapped.

Some heads turned around to openly ogle at them. Meg supposed that being stuck in airport for hours gave little to none opportunities for entertainment, but she still had to bite her tongue not to scream at everybody to mind their own damn business.

“Luc, come on,” she said, trying to lower her voice and keep a little bit of dignity. “It’s not that I don’t want to visit your family, it’s just… yeah, I don’t really want to,” she ended up admitting.

 “I don’t see why the animosity, Meg,” he said, like he didn’t know. “They have been nothing but welcoming towards you…”

“They think I’m a gold digger, Luc,” she interrupted him.

She was in no mood for excuses. She had planned to sleep on the plane (the nerves of the travel and the accumulated fatigue were sure to knock her out), but now she was simply too tired to deal with the overcrowded place, and the sudden cold, and the woman with a ridiculous platinum blonde hair dye who was acting as if she was reading a magazine but was obviously heeding every word they said. But most of all, she was too tired of Luc’s bullshit.

“That isn’t true.”

“Yes, yes it is,” she complained. “They don’t like me because you’re a brilliant future surgeon, and I’m a good-for-nothing P.A. who just spent a year sitting on her ass. Your mom pretty much gave me a sex-ed class last time we were there. She made it very clear she thinks I’m trying to get pregnant to force to tie the knot or something.”

Luc remained in a silence that was only partially stunned and that Meg didn’t like at all.

“What?” she asked, finally, though she dreaded the answer.

“Well, are you?”

The platinum blonde woman raised her head, not even bothering to pretend she wasn’t listening anymore, but at this point, Meg was too angry at Luc to spare her a thought.

“Why the hell would you even ask something like that?” she exclaimed.

“Well, you are the one who always insist that we should have sex and…”

“That’s because we hadn’t fucked in weeks,” Meg pointed.

Even more heads turned towards them now, but to hell with everything. If she had to ventilate their problems in front of the goddamn airport audience to get a simple answer, then she fucking would. She had been raised at Lilith Master’s School of Making a Scene to Get Away with Mine, and they had nothing on her. Luc moved in his seat, uncomfortable, probably realizing he had started a war he could not possibly win.

“I think we should discuss this elsewhere,” he said.

“You brought it up,” said Meg. If he thought he was getting off the hook so easily, he was thoroughly mistaken. “I want to know, Luc. You can only argue that you’re tired for so long. Hell, I’m tired all the time, and I still manage to get the apartment in order by the time you arrive. If you arrive at all, that is.”

“I’m working hard!” said Luc. He wasn’t shouting, but if his voice had been raised a decibel or two, he probably would’ve been. “I have to, since you’re basically living there rent free!

“That’s what it is, then?” she answered. “Money? That’s your issue?”

“My mom might think that you’re a gold digger, but you can’t deny she has reasons to,” said Luc.

Meg’s rational mind knew he really didn’t mean that, that he was just trying to hurt her (and succeeding at it) because he was so mad, but Meg’s rational mind wasn’t in charge right now. She stood up, more for dramatic effect than because she really had anywhere to go.

“I’ll move out, and you won’t have to put up with me asking you for anything,” she declared, out loud, so all the onlookers could hear her. “I don’t need your dick or your money, and you can tell that to your mother the next time she calls.”

“Good for you!” exclaimed the platinum blonde lady, and maybe Meg could have appreciated the comedic effect of it if she had been less furious.

As it was, she just walked away, her boots stomping on the ground, her wheeled suitcase rattling behind her, and some bitter tears in her eyes she refused to let out.

 

* * *

 

And that’s how Meg ended up spending Thanksgiving alone.

By the time the adrenaline from the fight wore off, she had already packed most of her clothes, her makeup and her toothbrush. It was only when she stood at the door, fighting against her keychain; that she realized she had nowhere to go. Ruby wasn’t picking up her phone (she was probably at a very noisy party with her very noisy friends), all roads were closed because of the snow (it had taken almost three hours for the taxi to get there), and besides… she didn’t want to leave. She sat on the couch, thinking about the numbers that moving out would involved.

In the six months she had spent stuck there feeling sorry for herself, Meg had bought four cups for her abusive coffee drinking habits, sixteen books for the shelves that before contained only medical treatises, and one squalid bonsai tree that now rested in the windowsill all green and healthy. She had watched at least ten marathons of _America’s Next Top Model_ and _Project Runaway_ in that old TV while her boyfriend was asleep or working, and she was acquaintance with seven neighbors, three of them on first name basis. Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo, from the fifth floor, had even given her a family recipe for a weird tea that was supposed to help her with her insomnia, bless their hearts.

Somehow, she had managed to cultivate a life in that one-room apartment that was completely independent from her relationship with Luc, and the idea of throwing that away in the middle of a tantrum was not only sad, but also negligent. That was also one of her mother’s favorite words: it meant that she was acting like an idiot, basically.

So, instead of running away, she decided to be an adult, and wait for Luc to come back. After all, they hadn’t meant any of the things they’d said. They were both tired and tetchy from the weather, the work, the endless waiting at the airport. It wasn’t the first fight they had, and God knew it wouldn’t be the last. They could get through this.

She left her suitcases by the door, just in case she was wrong.

Well, the last thing she wanted to do right now was going to bed and not sleep, so she made some of the Harvelle’s weird tea, grabbed a blanket and curled up in the couch with _View From Heaven,_ Novak’s most recent book. For the record, she hadn’t bought it: Ruby had lent it to her when Meg made the mistake of commenting she’d read _Twist and Shout_ and yeah, okay, the damn thing was a tearjerker.

This one sounded like it would be, too: a single mother was dealing with the death of her child after a hit-and-run, so she went to a support group with other parents who also had some depressing stories, like the marriage that had seen their little girl fight against cancer for most of her life, and this other father who’d found his son hanging from a belt in his bedroom, and holy fuck, why couldn’t Novak just write about unicorns shooting rainbows out of their asses?!

Meg was weeping while John told the other parents how heartbreaking it’d been when he had to give away all of Adam’s pre-med books (he always wanted to be a doctor), when the door opened softly and Luc walked in.

“Oh, Meg,” he said, when he saw her puffy eyes and reddened face. He sat on the couch next to her and hugged her. “I’m sorry.”

She was about to ask him what for, he wasn’t the jackass who made a living out of writing about dead kids; when she remembered the airport and the fight and all the other annoying little details from her life that seemed quite petty compared to the pain Lisa had to endure when she found out Ben’s murderer might walk free. Except that Lisa and Ben and all the other people in the book were fiction, and Luc wasn’t, and it was sort of silly she was more wrecked over them than over the very real possibility of a very real break-up. She needed to get her shit together.

“It’s fine,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry too.”

Luc started a long dissertation about how all couples had problems, and of course he didn’t thought she was a gold digger (he had the delicacy of leaving his mother of the conversation), but now that she had a job, she had to meet him halfway. Meg was tempted to ask why he couldn’t tell her all of this before it blew up on their faces in such uncivilized manner, but honestly, she didn’t want to start fighting again, and she was very anxious to find out what happened to the asshole that ran over Ben, and if Lisa hooked up with the handsome detective that was managing the case.

“Of course,” she said, nodding. “I completely understand.”

Luc looked at her like he knew she was agreeing with him for the sake of keeping the peace, but didn’t say anything.

“And I’m sorry I kept you up,” he added.

Meg blinked and sneaked a glance at the clock. It was four in the morning.

“Where were you all night?” she asked, instead of confessing it was her boss and not him that made her lost track of time.

“At Zeke’s,” he answered a little too fast. “We watched the game and ordered pizza.”

Then, he kissed her right under her ear and asked her to go to bed with him, and for a while, he was a little bit like that carefree boy Meg had met three years before; the one who could make a quip about anything instead of groaning and promising he would pay attention to her as soon as he came back from the clinic or was done studying.

She woke up at dawn, and just laid there, with her boyfriend’s breathing on the back of her neck, and his arm latched on her waist, and for a moment, she managed not to think about how Luc always complained that pizza was an unhealthy and insufficient meal, and how he never really liked football to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Twist and Shout, View From Heaven is not a story anyone's written, and was made up for the sole purpose of making Meg cry some more. The title is a reference to a Yellowcard song.


	4. You Can't Always Get What You Want

The picture that waited her at Novak’s apartment when she returned on Monday was pathetic to say the least. Her boss was on the couch, in dark blue pajamas, with a nose so red it reminded her of Rudolph the Reindeer, while Missouri was trying her best to force some home remedy of honey and lemon down his throat.

“I will not consume any more of that poisonous beverage!” said Novak, his voice even croakier than usual. “Megan, alert the authorities. This woman is attempting to murder me!”

“Well, if you wanna cough and sneeze your way into an early grave, be my guest, Castiel!” answered Missouri, with her hands in her hips, obviously irritated.

“And where have _you_ been?” Novak asked Meg. His blue yes where shiny from the fever. “Things have been crazy around here! I had a phone call!”

“Oh, my God!” Missouri raised her eyes and arms towards the sky. “It’s the end of times! The Armageddon! Castiel Novak had to get off his butt and answer his own phone!”

Meg was aware that, much like her and the platinum blonde lady, neither of them was in position to grasp how hilarious their bickering was. So, instead of bursting out laughing like she wanted to do, she teamed up with Missouri into making the writer drink the lemon tea and then some chicken soup.

“It’s a conspiracy!” Novak complained while they dragged him to his bedroom and put cold cloths on his forehead. “You, madams, are threatening my pacific existence, and I’m not about to allow it!”

“Yeah, alright, Captain America,” said Missouri, rolling her eyes so hard Meg almost feared they’d get stuck like that. “Try and get some sleep, will you?”

“I will not!” exclaimed Novak, defiantly. Ten seconds later he had fallen into a deep feverish slumber. Meg was almost sorry: this had been the most she’d ever heard him talk, and she had to admit it was kind of funny.

“I love him, but sometimes I would snap his little neck with my bare hands,” sighed Missouri while they left the room. “Care to give me hand? I have to make the most of it while he’s knockout.”

Sadly, she didn’t mean throwing a party in the luxurious apartment or stealing the coffee maker. She gave Meg a duster and guided her into the library.

“We have to come in while he’s not looking,” said Missouri. “Otherwise he freaks out.”

“What does he keep here anyway?” Meg asked, feeling a little like Bluebeard’s wife about to cross the forbidden door.

There were no corpses on the other side, of course, but books: three entire walls covered with books, floor to ceiling. Hardcovers, paperbacks, old editions, new editions, pocket editions, classics, poetry, romance, mystery, horror, epic fantasy, biographies; thousands of books, following no particular order other than Novak’s whim. Meg tried not to drool too much. She loved reading, and had been accused of being a book hoarder, but this? This pace had a better stock than most libraries in town!

There was also a soft red carpet with repetitive patterns on the floor and a white divan with a tumbling pile of books next to it.

“Those are the one he reads when he’s procrastinating,” said Missouri knowingly, while she carried the ladder to begin dusting the upper shelves.

Novak’s desk was right under the only small window, and was swarming with papers, used pens, and a writing machine that looked like it could belong to a museum.

“How does he not suffer an asthma attack every day?” Meg asked, sneezing.

“I insist that he keeps the window open,” said Missouri. “Of course, that’s why he blames us for the cold he has now. He was writing, the phone rang, and some papers flew out while he got up to answer. He spent Thanksgiving night trying to recover as many as he could.”

“He was out there that night?” Meg asked, remembering the menacing blackened sky and the cutting wind. “Chasing _papers_?”

“Well, he’s not very sane,” Missouri shrugged, and Meg could not argue with her.

She considered organizing Novak’s desk, but Missouri said that was a sure way to get her ass fired, so Meg limited to get the chair cleaned off. While she was at it, she raised her head, maybe out of curiosity to find what books did Novak stared directly at while he was sitting there, and from across the room, a wide smile and a pair of familiar green eyes stared back at her.

The portrait was right in front some books by Bukowski and Vonnegut, and it showed a twenty-something year old guy with freckles and a leather jacket, leaning against a shiny black muscle car, and for a second, Meg had the impulse to scream it was Jensen, the motorcyclist from _Twist and Shout_.

Of course, that was ridiculous: she knew this guy, and not only because he was exactly how she pictured a fictitious character, but she had actually met that person, talked to him, shook hands with him and maybe even liked a little, but she couldn’t quite recall him. She cleaned the books from that part of the library very slowly, eyeing the photograph and trying to put a name to the face, until it was obvious her brain refused to collaborate.

“Missouri?” she finally gave up. “Who’s this?”

Missorui’s face went from her usual kind gesture to a very sad one.

“That’s Dean,” she said. “Cas’ fiancé.”

Something clicked inside Meg’s skull. “Dean?” she repeated. “Dean Winchester, Sam’s brother?”

Right, she remembered now. She had only met him a couple of times, ages ago, while Ruby and Sam were still dating.

“He passed away… well, it’s going to be three years in a few months,” said Missouri.

The funny thing about our own mortality is that we have absolutely no conscious of it. We tend to think that death is an abstract event for starving children in third world countries and characters in books. And yes, it’s awful, and it makes us shiver, and comment with our friends how terrible it all is, but it’s not more real to us than those characters, and no closer than those generic kids.

Until it isn’t. Until you find out someone you once knew died while you weren’t looking, while you were busy finding your rhythm in your new job and flirting with a handsome med student. Death doesn’t slap you in the face to remind you he exists; he just taps you in the shoulder now and then to say hi and casually ask if you know where all your loved ones are tonight.

Meg stared at Missouri like she thought she was joking.

“What?” she asked, when she could finally find her voice. “H-How?”

“Well, he was a firefighter,” Missouri said, and Meg vaguely recalled Sam mentioning it. “And there was a gas escape in this school. He was trying to save some kids and…”

The place had practically exploded in the middle of a school day, leaving several children and teachers trapped inside. There had been a great media buzz about safety in schools and budget cuts, and some parents had sued the school, even though nobody had died. Well, except for the firefighter that went back to scan the place for more possible victims, and never came out.

“They gave him a Medal of Valor and everything,” said Missouri. “Cas keeps it hidden in here somewhere, along with their rings.”

“I didn’t know,” Meg said, and she wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. She didn’t know Dean had died. She didn’t know Novak was gay. She didn’t know they were engaged. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt like screaming and running and calling Sam and crying a little. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up like Ruby.

“It changed Cas,” continued Missouri. “He wasn’t always this reclusive and, well… difficult.”

Missouri didn’t look like she wanted to keep cleaning, so Meg suggested they had some coffee and pastries (leaving Castiel alone for five minutes while they went to the bakery wouldn’t kill him, they decided). They talked about the Winchesters some more. Missouri was a friend of the family, and had known Dean and Sam since they were practically out of their diapers. She stayed in touch. Her son was in Law School now, and Sam tutored him, when he found the time in between his brand new wife, Jessica (another thing Meg had no idea: Sam had been married for a year and a half) and his work at a prestigious buffet, where he was hoping to be made associate within a few years.

“I tell him he works too hard,” she said. “And he says Dean would hit him in the head for not working hard enough. I think he’s wrong, you know? I think Dean would tell him to slow down and enjoy what he has, but what do I know?”

“You loved him too, didn’t you?” asked Meg, and Missouri smiled sadly.

“It was impossible not to love Dean.”

She was right. Meg had only known him briefly, but he had made a good impression on her. If it hadn’t been mandatory by their respective older sibling’s obligations to hate each other, they could have actually been good friends. Of course, now it made a lot of sense that she had imagined Dean as Jensen. Castiel probably put a lot of his fiancé in the character, and although Dean was not in the front of her mind, she had still recognized him in that disguise.

“Don’t mention any of this to Cas,” Missouri asked her an hour later, while she was preparing to leave. “It’s a very delicate issue. I used to tell him he needed to talk about it, but well… everyone deals with the pain differently.”

Meg promised to be a tomb (pun not intended), and as soon as Missouri left, she returned to the library to have one last look at Dean’s photo. There he was, all freckles and confidence, basking in the sun with his car. How old had he been? Sam was a year younger than her, she thought, and Dean was like, what? Four, five years older than his brother? The exact number didn’t matter; she was pretty sure he hadn’t made it to thirty. Or to his wedding.

“Well, that’s some bullshit right there,” she told Dean. “I am so sorry, dude.”

Dean kept smirking at her from his portrait, without answering. Meg felt the beginning of a headache right in the middle of her forehead, and she suddenly realized she was really, really tired. She had managed to sleep five hours in a row the night before (a whole new record), but she was pretty sure she was going to crash at any moment. Nobody could live on four daily hours of light doze, so every once in a while and without any previous warning, Meg’s body decided the world could go fuck itself, and simply shut down for twelve or fourteen hours. She sometimes joked her sleeping habits were like an open relationship with Death, but with the guy’s cold touch still lingering on her shoulder, she didn’t find it funny that evening.

She closed the doors of the library, checked the e-mails and messages in the answering machine (there were none), paid the bills online and basically did everything as if Castiel was healthy and pretending to write behind the close doors. At five, she went to check up on Castiel. He was still unconscious, his shallow gasping replaced by a deep, slow breathing. _Misha_ was curled up right next to him, and he shot Meg an unfriendly look when she approached him to replace the damp cloths and touch his skin. The fever had cooled down, and his nose wasn’t quite as red. He’d probably still need a day or two in bed, but he’d be up being an asshole to everybody and writing-but-not-really in no time. _Misha_ hissed at her.

“Alright, I’m going,” she told the cat, annoyed. “But if he gets mad because we left him alone, that’s on you.”

“Megan?”

Castiel had his eyes slightly opened. They weren’t shiny anymore, but dim and glassy.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Novak,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Do you have to leave?”

“Uh…”

Meg’s headache had grown to become a full force hammering inside her skull, and she was slightly dizzy. The coffee she had with Missouri felt like a memory from long ago, as her stomach was crunching and roaring. She knew the symptoms: the crash was imminent, and she’d better be at home, in her bed, when it happened.

Still, Castiel looked so alone, so sad, and Dean’s smile from the photograph flashed in front of Meg’s eyes, and well, it just seemed cruel to leave him sunken in that big empty bed, in that big empty apartment, with no one but a grumpy cat for company.

“I can stay a while if you need me,” she said.

“No, that’s okay,” said Castiel, closing his eyes again. “I bet you have a lot of better things to do.”

Meg opened her mouth to tell him that no, not really, but then he surprised her by asking:

“Tell me something about you, Megan. You know everything about me. Hell, you hold my entire life in your hands, but I know nothing about you, except that you’re torturously punctual and that Missouri likes you.”

Meg remained silent for a minute, wondering what the hell she was supposed to answer to that. She wasn’t interesting, or deep, or had a secret sorrow that justified her sporadic rudeness. She hadn’t read thousands of books, or wrote novels that made people cry and write letters telling her how much they cried. Her main virtue was her ability to function with little sleep and hold her tongue when she thought it’d get her in trouble.

“What do you want me to tell you?” she asked, finally.

“Anything,” said Castiel. “Why are you here, for example. What made you want to be a personal assistant?”

Well, at least that one was easy.

“I don’t want to be personal assistant,” she said. She hoped Castiel wouldn’t take that the wrong way. It wasn’t his fault. Well, it was, because dead fiancé or not, he was still an asshole boss, but Meg wouldn’t have chosen to pay his bills and bath his cat even if he had been the nicest guy on the planet.

“Then why are you?” he asked. Meg shrugged.

“Because as the great philosopher Mick Jagger said, you can’t always get what you want.”

It was an answer she used to give her mother whenever Lilith tried to make her do something she didn’t care to do. _“Megan, I want your room ordered right this instant!” – “You can’t always get what you want, mother. His Satanic Majesty Mick Jagger says so.”_ It had got Meg grounded more than once.

“Huh,” said Castiel, and the ghost of the faintest smile crossed his face. “You mind passing me that notebook? No, not the brown one. That one, please.”

It was a simple black moleskin, and Meg knew by Becky’s notes that Castiel kept those as a journal (the brown ones were for drafting his ideas, and he wrote his novels in the green ones). The writer produced a pen from under his pillow (Meg imagined Missouri would have a stroke if that thing stained the sheets) and opened the notebook, seemingly at random.

“Thank you, Megan,” he said. “That would be all.”

Meg left with the strange feeling that she was forgetting something important. It wasn’t until she was in bed, about to go comatose for a little while, that she noticed it was the first time Castiel thanked her for anything.


	5. Ain't That Just What Christmas Is All About?

Meg usually didn’t enjoy Christmas, because Christmas was that time of the year when her inner psychopath ran free and whispered in her ear no jury would convict her if she grabbed that knife over there and stabbed Crowley in the neck. But the days leading up to Christmas that year were particularly good. Her sleeping schedule was finally starting to get regular, going up to six or seven hours straight during several nights in a row. Ellen Harvelle praised her weird family tea when Meg told her about it in the laundry room, but Meg was sure it had something to do with the fact Luc was staying at home more than usual. Obviously, it was too cold and uncomfortable to sleep in Zeke’s couch with the freezing temperatures and snowstorms looming over the city, but Meg convinced herself that it was because they had finally found common ground about their differences.

“The third year is critical,” said Lilith on the phone. “Your father proposed to me on our third year anniversary, did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, mother,” answered Meg. She didn’t want to mention that their marriage had ended in disaster, and that Lilith had gone on to marry Alistair within a year of dating him, and then Crowley within six months. “Please, try not to make Luc uncomfortable by asking him when he’s going to make me an honest woman.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” said Lilith, and they both knew she was lying. “I’m really happy to have you girls here for the Holidays.”

“Oh, Ruby’s going too,” said Meg. There was a strenuous clatter in the kitchen, and Meg stood up. “Good, I have to return her book… oh, mom, I’ll have to call you back.”

“I didn’t do this,” said Luc, standing in front of a puddle of tea and what used to be a cup. At least it wasn’t one of Meg’s favorites.

“Oh, my God, the cup must’ve committed suicide then!” Meg joked.

Luc frowned at her, but Meg just stuck her tongue out.

“What were you trying to do? You don’t even like tea,” she said, as she mopped the spilled tea while Luc got rid of the porcelain pieces.

“Yes, but you do,” muttered Luc.

Meg turned to look at him. Her boyfriend was avoiding her gaze, busying himself with the trashing bin. It was… odd. Luc didn’t do that sort of thing. It’s not that he wasn’t attentive, but… yeah, no, he really wasn’t. Luc was an ambitious and brilliant future surgeon who had his mind in a million places at the same time; so naturally, he was a bit oblivious to little things, like complimenting his girlfriend on her new haircut or showing up in time for dates (he had yet to completely forget about one). Meg hadn’t had her doors held opened for her in a while, and she was alright with that. She’d decided a long time ago she didn’t want to be pampered. But it still melted her heart when he actually showed her a small token of his affection.

“Come here,” she said, and gave him a little peck on the edge of the lips.

Luc tilted his head, then wrapped his arms around Meg’s waist, and threw her against the wall to kiss her passionately. That was more like it. With the years, Meg had discovered that sex was better than any tea or sleeping pill. And of course, it was always nice to have someone to snuggle with in the middle of the night.

Maybe that was the reason Meg was such in a good mood when she went Christmas shopping. She didn’t even mind the excessively long lines or the awful paper wrapping they gave her, even though she hated snowmen motives. She even bought presents for Crowley, Castiel and the damn cat. That’s how happy she was.

She ended up needing all of her holiday cheer not to throw _Misha_ out of the window when he scratched her.

“Oh, you goddamn…!”

“What on earth are you doing to him?”

Castiel was standing in the doorway of the library, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Your cat is a Scrooge, Mr. Novak,” Meg said through gritted teeth. “He positively hates Christmas.”

 _Misha_ ran to his master and immediately started rubbing his body against Castiel’s legs.

“It’s not his fault, when you tried to force that awful thing on him,” said Castiel, picking _Misha_ up and pointing at the collar with a sleigh bell Meg had in her hands.

“Come on, it’s not even red and green. It’s blue!” Meg argued, showing it to him. “It matches his eyes!”

“I’m afraid _Misha_ believes himself above such nuances,” said Castiel, and the cat purred in agreement. That was almost a joke coming from Castiel, so Meg felt a little daring.

“Well, it’s not just him,” she said. “I’ve noticed you hadn’t put a single Christmas decoration in the apartment.”

She’d thought it’d be the perfect excuse to break the creamy walls’ monotony a little bit, but as December slipped by, no Christmas tree had appeared, nor a wreath, nor even a single garland. It was frankly depressing.

Castiel shrugged.

“Why should I bother?” he said. “I’m not spending Christmas here.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Megan, please,” Castiel cut her off with a gesture. He was back to asshole boss just like that.

Megan sighed, and listed the people who called: Naomi was getting quite hysterical about the new book’s slow progress. Gabriel, another of Castiel’s brothers, had wanted to know what time he’d be arriving to pick him up at the airport. The pet spa where _Misha_ would be staying had confirmed the reservation (thank God, because Meg was afraid Castiel would ask her to sit the fucking animal, and judging from the experience she’d had with Ava’s chihuahua, that was bound to end badly for everybody).

“Thank you, Megan,” said Castiel, sitting on of his leather chairs with _Misha_ on his lap. “I will see you after New Year, I presume.”

“Yes,” said Meg, and it came off a little more irritated than she’d planned. She forced herself to breathe, and reached for a little package in her bag. She extended it to Castiel, who stared at her like she had just thrown a spider at his face. “Merry Christmas.”

“What’s… what’s this?” he asked, unsure.

“A present,” said Meg, kicking herself mentally. How could Castiel make her feel uncomfortable even when _he_ was the one who was being all odd and socially awkward about this? “For you.”

Castiel took it with the tip of his fingers and unwrapped it so slowly it was painful.

“Oh,” he said; when he finally had it in his hand. “It’s a…”

“A paperweight,” Meg said. Dammit, it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it looked ridiculous. ‘Castiel’ was an angel’s name, so she’d got him a little stone angel, thinking he would get the reference, but he was staring at it and holding it at arm’s length like it was a bomb about to explode, and Meg felt really, really stupid. “So your papers don’t fly out the window again, you see? Like it happened on Thanksgiving and… if you don’t like it, I can take it back.”

“No, no, I… I appreciate the thought,” he said, and carefully placed it in the chair’s armrest. “It’s, uh… it’s very considerate of you, Megan. But I didn’t get you anything.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay, Mr. Novak,” she said. When had the room got so oppressive? “You already gave me my Christmas bonus.”

“Did I?” he asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Meg nodded. She didn’t mention he completely forgot about it, so Meg took the liberty of fixing that. “And you were very generous with Missouri as well.”

“Right, I see,” said Castiel.

He was about to say something else, obviously to dismiss her, but even though Megan wanted to bury her head in the sand four or six feet deep, she wasn’t done yet. She quickly grabbed Ruby’s copy of _View from Heaven_ and held it in front of the writer.

“You could sign this, though,” she said, her words stumbling out of her mouth clumsily. “I-It’s for my sister. She likes your books a lot.”

“I don’t sign my books,” said Castiel, and Meg wanted to scream at him to sign it so she could leave already, but Castiel didn’t give her time: “But I guess I can make an exception.”

He produced a pen from his pockets, opened the book and with a few wide and fluid movements, stamped his signature on the first page.

“Thank you,” sighed Meg, making it disappear in her bag before he changed his mind. Didn’t sign his books? So when did people get the chance to tell them what they thought? No wonder her desk was flooded with unread fan mail. “Well, Happy Holidays, Mr. Novak,” she said, trying to ignore she was repeating herself.

“And to you, Megan.”

They shook hands; his grip was firm and dry as always. She noticed they were little crinkles and violet circles around his tired eyes. How old was he, anyway? He couldn’t be all that old, but he looked so with his solemn expression and complicated speech pattern. Not so much when he ran his hands through his hair and messed it up a bit. The stubble definitely added years to his appearance. And his lips…

Castiel let go of her hand and closed the door. Meg was left in the hallway, wondering why her heart was pounding so fast and what her business with her gay boss’ lips was anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Merry Christmas!”

In sharp contrast to Castiel’s apartment, Lilith had adorned her house with every possibly golden, green and red thing she could get her hands on. She gave Luc and Meg a tight hug, and immediately put a glass of eggnog in each of their hands.

“You had a nice trip, dear?” she asked, smiling, showing her white porcelain teeth.

Usually, Lilith was the epitome of cold, measured elegance: her fingernails perfectly manicured, her blonde hair falling in flawless waves around her ruthless face. Her two divorces and recent third marriage had turned her into a wealthy enough woman to afford all the luxurious latest treatments in her personal war against old age. Meg had to admit that her mother seemed to be winning: at almost fifty years old, she didn’t look a day older than thirty five.

Tonight she was even more mesmerizing, though, maybe because she wasn’t trying to impress anybody. She was wearing a red velvet blouse over a black tube skirt, which to her was the equivalent of dressing casual. She looked relaxed and laughed when Luc kissed her in the cheek and praised her aspect.

“Ah, Megan,” her second stepfather came out of the kitchen. “Lovely to see you, dear.”

Meg wasn’t sure whether she should laugh. Crowley, who was a head shorter than her mother, had ditched his usual suit and tie in favor of baggy jeans, and a sweater with reindeers on it.

“You might want to change, Fergus,” Meg told him. “Unless you want your business partners to have some blackmail material on you.”

“Oh, they’re not coming,” said Lilith. “It’s just going to be just us this year.”

“Just the family,” Crowley smiled, but it looked more like he was showing his teeth, mad dog style. “Isn’t that great?”

 _Yeah, wonderful,_ Meg’s inner psychopath said, _less bodies to dispose of this year! You’ve lost weight, Crowley? How thoughtful of you!_

“Meg!”

Ruby came running at her and threw her arms around her sister’s neck, almost tackling her.

“Heya, Ru!” said Meg, hugging her back. “How’ve you been?”

Her sister, as usual, starting letting out a hundred words per second, telling Meg all about her new job as chef assistant in a pretty little restaurant she and Luc just had to visit some time, and, oh, she had seen this wonderful movie the other day, Meg totally had to check it out, and…

“Oh, this is Gavin,” she introduced Meg almost casually to the strange brunette man standing in the dining room with a glass of scotch and an expression of supreme indifference. “He’s our brother! Well, stepbrother. Isn’t it great? Remember when we were little and we used to say how cool it’d be to have a brother…?”

“Ruby, dear, I need your help in the kitchen.”

“Right away, Mom!”

Ruby left, bouncing on her feet like she could barely contain her enthusiasm. Crowley and Luc were next to the chimney, discussing God knew what, and Gavin was eyeing Meg, like he was tying to find out exactly how she was related to Ruby and Lilith. They were both blondes and petit, while Meg was taller and had inherited her father’s dark brown hair.

“So you’re Fergus’ son,” said Meg, eyeing the guy right back.

“Yes,” he said, marking the ‘s’, same way Crowley did.

“My condolences.”

That managed to pull a smile out of him. They made small talk about Gavin’s flight from Glasgow and how the weather seemed determined to freeze them all to dead. None of them mention the elephant in the room: Gavin had not been at his father’s wedding, since they were not in speaking terms then (Meg couldn’t blame him, she was pretty sure whatever the reason was, it was Crowley’s fault somehow); so Gavin’s presence in this… familiar Christmas evening was puzzling to say the least.

“Here it is!” Lilith entered the room with a golden turkey Meg could have sworn wasn’t cooked by her mother. “Dinner’s ready!”

Dinner went… surprisingly okay. Gavin and Crowley were tense, but behaved, and Ruby talked nonstop about a bunch of things nobody was sure to ever had heard about. Luc was a little quiet, but Meg assumed it was because he was tired and a little overwhelmed at actually sitting there without being interrogated about every little detail of his life and his relationship.

Meg was nervous about the presents, because Lilith’s gifts normally were some kind of passive-aggressive indirect, but this year, she had decided to keep the peace and gave her daughters earrings. Innocent, actually cute earrings. The relief Meg felt was only surpassed by Ruby’s elation when she received _View from Heaven_ signed for her.

“This is incredible!” she screamed in the high pitch tone that indicated she was beyond ecstatic. “Thank you so much!”

“Well, that’s not much of a present,” Crowley pointed. His fake courtesy had melted like ice with every glass of Scotch he poured down his throat. “Meg works for the man, after all.”

 _There you go, dismissing everything I do like always,_ said Meg’s inner psychopath while Ruby explained that Castiel didn’t organize book signings or answer his mail. _One of these days, Crowley, one of these days…_

“He sounds like a weirdo,” said Luc, harshly.

“He’s not!” said Meg. “Castiel is…”

_He’s incredibly talented, and he doesn’t say a word for hours at a time, and tries to be organized, but his desk is messy as fuck, just like his hair, and he keeps pens hidden everywhere, and also, he’s a bit of a jerk who doesn’t get along with his family and shuns his agent; and the snow falling outside is warmer than him, but that might be ‘cause he’s lost somebody very important to him, and he has the most intense blue eyes you’ve ever seen, and why are you even thinking about his eyes, Meg? He’s gay and you have a boyfriend. Get your shit together._

“He’s… lonely,” she finished, when she realized her family was still waiting for her to end that sentence.

“Well, being lonely is no excuse to avoid people,” concluded Lilith, gulping down the last of the eggnog.

Meg wanted to tell her that avoiding people was the very definition of being lonely, but didn’t. This was the best Christmas they’d had in years and she wasn’t about to ruin that.

* * *

 

After all she’d eaten and drunk, Meg assumed she would drop dead in bed immediately, but no such luck. Well, you can’t win ‘em all. The unfamiliar surroundings, followed by the noises her mother made in the kitchen while washing the dishes and the car starting in the garage so Crowley could take Gavin to his hotel, prevented her from falling asleep. She stared at the ceiling, wondering how Castiel would be spending the Holidays, and why did she care at all. It was just that her boss hadn’t seen particularly eager to leave for Los Angeles, and she had a hard time imagining him in some beach, wearing shorts and drinking a daiquiri with his apparently endless parade of brothers, and seriously, she needed to stop it, whatever ‘it’ was.

She closed her eyes instead, and started controlling her breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Lilith had finally finished with the dishes and was going to bed now. Inhale, exhale. Crowley was back. It took him a while. Inhale, exhale. Maybe he and Gavin had buried the hatchet. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Luc was getting up to go to the bathroom now. Inhale, exhale. Maybe when he came back they could fool around a little, although it seemed tacky to have sex at her mother’s house. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Luc was taking his time. Inhale, exhale. Not that she blamed him; sometimes her mother’s cooking was toxic. Inhale, exhale…

Something broke downstairs. Meg opened her eyes wide and jumped out of bed. She remembered her mother locking the door, but maybe Crowley had left it open when he came back. Oh, God, were there thieves in the house? No, maybe not. Maybe the wind had knocked something over. She had to check.

She was halfway downstairs when Crowley’s voice came floating towards her.

“What in the bloody hell…?”

“Mr. Crowley!”

It was Luc. Meg jumped the last three steps and stumbled into the living room.

There were roses scattered on the floor, with what was left of one of her mother’s flower pots destroyed and the carpet was soaking wet. That was what Meg’s mind could process. The rest of it didn’t make any sense.

Crowley was there, still in his jeans and silly sweater, with yet another glass of Scotch in his hand. Ruby was there too, pulling the oversized shirt she used to sleep over her head, but Meg caught a glimpse of what she was wearing underneath, or better, of what she was not wearing. And there was Luc, in his boxers, sporting an obvious and unmistakable boner.

She must have made a sound, because the three of them turned to look at her. There was guilt in Ruby’s face, a guilt she knew all too well, a guilt that was only reserved to big screw ups, like relapses and blatant lies. And it was that guilt that explained everything to Meg. Before Luc said “This is not what it looks like”, before Crowley declared this was none of his business, before Lilith showed up in her silky negligee to ask what was going on, Meg understood.

And here she thought she could spend at least one year without planning ways to murder a member of her family. _Well, but ain’t that just what Christmas is all about?,_ chuckled her inner psychopath.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, it's not that Cas didn't like Meg's present. It's that she inadvertedly got him a Weeping Angel and he's a closeted whovian. The title of this chapter is a line from Merry Christmas (Kiss My Ass) by All Time Low.


	6. There Is No Such Thing As Accidental Infidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a reference to a song of the same name by You Me At Six. You should listen to it. It's awesome.

Meg’s phone was buzzing in her bag, but she ignored it. She had nothing to say to whoever was on the other end.

She was sitting right outside Luc’s building (not her building, not anymore; she couldn’t stay there) on her wheeled suitcase, holding onto her bonsai tree. She didn’t know why she had decided to take it with her. Maybe she subconsciously knew Luc was never going to water it, so she’d picked it up on her way to the door.

She didn’t remember getting dress and leaving her mother’s house (although there had been a lot of yelling, she was sure of that). She didn’t remember the ride home (no, not home, Luc’s apartment) in Luc’s car. She didn’t remember having a conscious thought until she was out, waiting for a taxi. She didn’t know where she was going, exactly, but she didn’t quite care.

It was odd. Last time she’d considered moving out, her mind had put on a lot of arguments to persuade her. Now her mind was blank. She should be crying, she should be angry, she should be… having some sort of reaction, she guessed. But she just felt detached from the whole thing, like it had happened to somebody else.

“Maybe I just can’t cope with it,” she told the bonsai. “Maybe I’ve gone mad.”

“Maybe,” somebody said next to her. “Otherwise, why would you be freezing your ass here and talking to a plant?”

Meg blinked. Jo was standing right next to her, with what seemed like a cup of the Harvelle’s tea in her gloved hands. She hadn’t heard her coming.

“Hello,” Jo said. “Mom saw you through the window. Told me to come and ask you what the hell are you doing here, and to warn you you’re going to get pneumonia.”

Despite the circumstances, that made Meg smile. She moved a little, so Jo could sit by her side on the suitcase. Her neighbor handed her the cup, and Meg took a sip. The warm liquid melted the layer of ice inside of her, and the weight of last night’s events fell on her head finally.

“I caught Luc having sex with Ruby,” she said.

“As in, your sister Ruby?” Jo asked.

“Yes.”

Even as she told it, it sounded absurd. Why would Luc do something like that? Why would Ruby? Hadn’t she dreamed the whole thing? No. Meg was good at knowing when she was awake, and she had been devastatingly so when she walked into that living room.

“Well, that sucks so much donkey balls,” said Jo. Meg chuckled.

“Joanna Beth, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I brush my teeth first,” Jo shrugged. “Hey, I know this is none of my business, but you don’t look particularly upset.”

Meg turned to glance at her. Jo had her blonde hair tucked under a cap with a pompom Ellen had probably knitted for her, and was looking at her with genuine interest. They had coincided on the laundry room enough times for Meg to find out her father had died while she was a teenager, and that she was studying senior year at college. They weren’t tight, precisely, but Ellen and Jo had been more than welcoming when Meg first moved in, and with her (theoretical) anger at Ruby, Jo was the closest thing she had to a friend right now.

“I’m not surprised, that’s all,” Meg explained. “Luc and I hadn’t been working out properly for a while.”

“Yeah, but with your sister? That’s low,” pointed Jo.

“It is damn tasteless, yes,” Meg agreed. She took another gulp of the tea. ‘Tasteless’ was the kind of word Lilith would have used.

“So what are you gonna do now?” Jo asked. “I’m sure Mom would have no problem if you’d like to stay with us.”

“You’re very generous,” Meg said. “But I… I need to stay away from here. Just for a while.”

“Too close to the enemy. I get it,” said Jo, and then stood up, shaking the snowflakes that had gathered on her lap. “Well, at least let me give you a ride… to wherever you were planning to go.”

Meg reflected upon it while Jo ran inside to explain the situation to Ellen and get the car keys. Where was she planning to go, anyway? She couldn’t go back to her mother’s house, where she was certain a concert of crying and remorse waited for her. A motel maybe? Well, there was nothing like an unknown setting, probably with strange smells and suspicious stains on the ceiling, to keep her up at night, so that was not happening. If only she had access to somewhere nice, somewhere she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed…

And then, she realized she did.

 

* * *

 

Meg calmed the pang of guilt in her chest by reminding herself Castiel would be away until January 2nd, plenty of time for her to find a small apartment. A cheap apartment. Or a nice hotel that didn’t charged by the hour.

The writer’s place was as silent and hostile as always, but somehow it felt more so without him and his cat there. Not that they were the friendliest company, but at least they were… well, company. While she left her things at the small guests’ room - which was clean and ordered; thank you, Missouri - she wondered how Castiel managed to live there all alone and not go insane.

Though she had to admit, the lack of Christmas decoration was a blessing. She wasn’t sure she could have handled it. Now she’d had time to think about it, she decided she was gloomy and hurt over what’d happened. That seemed like a proper state of mind, instead of that fog of gray apathy that was slowly eating away her heart.

She left her phone at the house while she went to the grocery store. She had a dozen missing calls when she came back, most of them from Luc, but also from Ruby and Lilith. She sighed, and decided to text them to at least inform them she hadn’t crashed in the slippery road and was agonizing in a hospital somewhere. After that, she turned off her phone, wrapped herself in a blanket and went to her studio to binge on whatever was on Netflix, but she could only half concentrate on it.

She checked Castiel’s e-mails (there was nothing but a picture of a cat in a Christmas hat sent by someone named Balthazar), and then, thinking that maybe crying a bit would make her feel better, she started re-reading Twist and Shout.

She went to bed around two in the morning, with a lump on her throat that was only partially the book’s fault, and snoozed for an hour and a half. When she woke up again, she tried to keep reading, but her mind refused to process the words. With a groan, she got up, made some more tea, and just… roamed the halls a bit, like a lost, uninvited ghost.

Finally, she ended up in the library, chose a different book and laid down on the white divan. Which wasn’t as hard as she had imagined. In fact, it was just on the right side of hard to be comfortable. Meg curled up on it, the book forgotten in her hand and closed her eyes, her face turned towards Castiel’s desk.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she looked again, the cold light of the winter sun was creeping in through the window. The little stone angel she had given her boss was right beside the typewriter. That made her smile. She didn’t know why it seemed important that he had decided to use the stupid paperweight, but she needed to hold on to whatever positive thing came her way.

She still hadn’t shed a tear.

She was in the kitchen having some coffee and thinking about taking a shower, when a noise startled her. There was someone at the door. She had about ten seconds to think about hiding (which would have been useless anyway) when Castiel walked in.

Her boss looked awful. His hair was in more disarray than usual, and his clothes were all ruffled, like they had been slept in for a night or two. He passed her by without even acknowledging her presence, and began to manipulate the coffee machine… before he realized there was already a pot of freshly brewed coffee sitting on the table. He blinked, confused, and then looked up. Meg wished she was wearing something more than her AC/DC shirt and her worn out yoga pants. The writer rubbed his eyes a couple of times and yawned.

“I’ll deal with this in a couple of hours,” he said, and then proceeded to disappear into his room.

* * *

 

Meg resolved that since she was caught red-handed squatting at Castiel’s apartment, she might as well try and get out of the situation gracefully. By noon, she had showered, brushed her hair and put on her favorite blouse and her most flattering jeans. Her boss staggered out of the bedroom, still with the same exhausted expression, and the same shirt he was wearing when he arrived, and seemed mystified at finding Meg in the kitchen again, in front of a couple of sandwiches she had prepared as a peace offering.

“You’re still here,” he said, categorically.

“Yes,” Meg answered.

“So you’re not a fatigue induced hallucination,” he continued.

“No,” said Meg, wondering why the hell she hadn’t thought about that and ran away while she had the chance.

“Huh,” said Castiel. He seemed disappointed, but it could also have been just pure tiredness. His blue stare was bleaker than she’d ever seen it. “That’s a shame. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to fire you.”

Meg closed her eyes for a second, cursing internally, and then adopted her most compliant tone.

“Mr. Novak, please, let me explain…”

Someone rang the doorbell. Castiel groaned, and Meg wondered for the first time if maybe he was suffering a hangover.

“It would appear the gods do not want me to rest,” he sighed dramatically as he got up. Meg quickly followed him, hoping that whoever was the unexpected visitor put Castiel in a good enough mood to make him reconsider that whole firing her thing.

She hadn’t counted on the unexpected visit to be for her.

“Hello,” Luc gave Castiel his most charming smile and extended a hand towards him. “I’m Luc, Meg’s boyfriend.”

 _Ex-boyfriend_ , she corrected mentally, but didn’t dare say it out loud. Castiel’s expression had gone from icy to glacial.

“I see,” he said, ignoring Luc’s hand. “I truly hope you’re here to escort Megan home.”

“Yes, I am,” said Luc.

“No, you’re not,” Meg chimed in. The gloom and sadness had been replaced by a growing irritation at the fact the both of them were talking about her like she wasn’t present. “Mr. Novak, I will leave right away and of course, you’re in the right if you want to fire me. But I’m not going with you, Luc.”

“Meg, come on,” Luc started.

“Meg? She’s here?” a second voice came from the hall.

Ruby showed up behind Luc. Her eyes were swollen and her nose was red, and when she saw Meg, more tears starting streaming down her cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Meg was supposed to be mad at her, she was the one who was meant to be weeping and making a scandal out of what happened. But she saw her little sister crying, and, as always, she just couldn’t conjure up the energy to get angry. She just really, really wished everybody would leave her alone.

But that would have been too much to ask from God, the universe or whoever was in charge of these things.

“Meg,” Ruby said with a hoarse voice. “I’m so sorry… I really didn’t… I…”

“Shut up,” said Meg, tiredly. “Just… shut up. I can’t talk to you right now.”

Ruby started sobbing even harder.

“P-Please… l-let me explain,” she stuttered.

“Explain what?” asked Meg. “There is no possible explanation for what you two did. Go away.”

“That would be much appreciated, yes,” intervened Castiel, and while Meg was sure she meant her too, Luc reacted like he only was talking to the two of them.

“Look, Castiel… can I call you Castiel?”

“No,” groaned Castiel.

“Castiel,” Luc continued, like he hadn’t heard him. “This is a family matter. If you could let us discuss it for a second…?”

“You’re asking me to leave you alone in my living room so you can discuss your family matters?” Castiel asked. His tone could have frozen the Sahara desert, and even Meg, in her weariness, was aware that what Luc was asking was completely illogical.

“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Novak,” she said. After all, Castiel didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of her issues. “Let me get my things.”

“Oh, great,” said Ruby, and managed to produce a nervous smile. “Great, Meg… we can all talk about this…”

“I’m still not going with you,” Meg repeated.

“Don’t be stupid, Meg, listen to your sister,” said Luc, rolling his eyes.

“How did you find me anyway?” Meg asked, too exhausted to argue.

“Jo told us,” said Luc.

“No, she didn’t,” said Meg. “She knew I didn’t want to see you.”

“Come on, Meg,” repeated Luc. “It was a onetime thing. It just happened. You can’t be mad at us.”

Oh, that was just Luc for you. He was brilliant, and confident, and had a life of success behind and ahead of him, so if he wanted something, he would just go and get it, no matter what was in his way. He wanted to have sex with his girlfriend’s sister? Well, he’d had it. He wanted his girlfriend to forgive him for it? Why wouldn’t she? She was lucky to have him, after all. He was a gift from God to mankind.

Ruby kept weeping quietly in the background while Meg pondered why she never noticed just how much of an arrogant pig her (ex) boyfriend was. Love was curious like that.

“Fuck you,” she said.

She didn’t imprint as much fury as she would have liked, but it still sounded conclusive. Ruby bawled while Luc stared in disbelief. Meg turned her back on them, strode towards the guest’s room to get her bag, and picked up the bonsai she had left by the window. Castiel wasn’t going to water it either.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Castiel was offering when she came back. Ruby was hiccoughing on the couch, and her answer was unintelligible.

“Oh, don’t bother, she always cries like that,” said Luc. Ruby had better gotten an orgasm from all this mess, because it really didn’t seem like it was worth it.

“I see,” said Castiel, for the second time. “So, this young lady and you…?”

“Yeah, it was a stupid mistake,” said Luc. Ruby whimpered, and Meg had to use all of her willpower to remember she wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for her. “An accident, you might say. Meg and I will figure it out.”

“No, we won’t,” Meg said, and handed the keys of the apartment to Castiel. “I am… extremely embarrassed, Mr. Novak. I’m sorry,” she apologized again, because a thousand apologies just weren’t enough.

“I am sorry too, Megan,” he said, and she didn’t understand what for or why wasn’t he reaching out for the keys. “I assume you’ll be returning to this… young man’s home?”

“Well, where else would she go?” asked Luc, with a derisive little laugh, and never in her life had Meg wanted to unleash her inner psychopath more.

“I see,” said Castiel again. “Well, then, it appears there is no other choice.”

Without any warning, he grabbed Luc’s arm, and ignoring his protests, practically lifted him to drag him out. Then he closed the door, and proceeded to completely disregard Luc’s furious screaming and knocking.

“I’d advise you to leave,” the writer said, his tone just an octave louder than usual, but incredibly threatening anyway. “Before I call security.”

He turned to Meg, and he looked like he had grown an inch or two. His shoulders were straight, his eyes were bright with anger, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, like he was barely resisting the temptation to let Luc in again just to punch him in the face.

“Megan, please, calm your sister while I call a cab for her,” he said. “And after that’s done, know that you are welcome to stay here for as long as you need.”

Then he marched out of the living room, leaving Meg hugging a hysterical Ruby, and wondering how she could ever think that man was cold.

* * *

 

“Can you forgive me?” asked Ruby for the thousandth time. “Will you ever forgive me?”

She had confessed to Meg that Luc was lying when he said it’d been an only time. They had been sleeping together for months. Every time he was late from work, every time he stayed ‘at Zeke’s’ for some reason, Luc had actually been with Ruby. Last time had been on Thanksgiving. Ruby had decided it was time to tell Meg, or just break it off, and Luc had chosen to break it off. Of course he had. He obviously didn’t know how to handle Ruby and her outbursts and mood swings.

But then Christmas had come along, and they hadn’t planned it, Meg had to believe it, they just met accidentally at the kitchen while she was looking for a glass of water and, well…

Meg wanted to yell at her that what happened after that was no accidental at all, that there was no such thing as accidental infidelity; that, as always, Ruby wasn’t sorry for what she did, just sorry ‘cause she got caught, and that Meg never wanted to see her face again.

“We’ll talk about it some other time, Ruby,” she said while she walked her to the third taxi waiting for her downstairs. (The other two had been dismissed after it was obvious Ruby was in no condition to leave without telling Meg all she had to tell her). “This is… not the best moment. Go home. I’ll call you later.”

She had to promise to call Ruby three or four more times before she convinced her to get in the car, and then told the driver Lilith’s address, because she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to send Ruby home all by herself.

It was almost eleven o’clock when she returned to the apartment, and Castiel had locked himself away in his room. He’d said she was welcome to stay, but Meg was not planning to abuse that privilege. No, she was willing to offer Castiel to pay her a little less while she lived there, and as soon as she found a place, she was out. With that decision firm in her mind, she went to bed.

And… right. What the hell was she expecting?

She listened to the maddening tick tock of the wall clock for what felt like an eternity (though it was just an hour or two) before she tiptoed into the library to try and find the book she had started reading the night before. 

And then, just her luck, she heard a noise behind her, and she startled before she realized it was just Castiel, wearing a pajama bottom and a shirt that should had been thrown away ages ago. The writer halted, confused.

“Megan?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to,” she stammered. Goddammit. Castiel had accepted she stayed there, but she was certain he wasn’t going to be as chill with her snooping in his sanctuary and the fear of being thrown out in the middle of a freezing December night made her mind go blank. “I was just… I only…”

She stopped. Castiel wasn’t screaming. He didn’t even look annoyed. He had a book in his hand and was narrowing his eyes at her, like he couldn’t keep them open, and Meg realized that she had seen that very same expression looking back at her in the mirror far too many times. It was the face of a person who wasn’t up by choice, but because their brain simply refused to shut down.

Castiel blinked a couple of times.

“You can’t sleep,” he said, a comprehensive tone in his voice.

Meg nodded. A small smirk appeared on Castiel’s lips.

“I can’t either.”


	7. The Dead of Night, and Everything in It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of substance abuse and suicidal thoughts.

In her permanent fight against insomnia, Meg had been told to go to the doctor, to go to bed early, to take sedatives, to practice yoga, and a long etcetera of well-meaning but generally useless advices.

Castiel said he had stopped bothering with all of that a long time ago.

“Whoever came up with the eight hours rule obviously never had an intrusive thought in his life,” he declared, sitting on his kitchen table, all dignified and correct, even though his hair was standing in every possible direction and his stubble had grown enough to darken his features.

“Oh, my God, yes!” said Meg, nodding enthusiastically, for somebody had finally succeeded at putting into words what she had been trying to explain all her life. “And you get obsessed with it. You start counting: _‘If I sleep now, I’ll only get five hours… if I sleep now, I’ll get four…’_ ”

“You end up spending more time thinking about sleeping than actually sleeping,” said Castiel.

“You turn and toss looking for the Right Spot,” continued Meg.

“The Right Spot?”

“You know, that one spot in the mattress where you’re comfortable, where you know exactly what to do with your legs and your arms…”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel shook his head, though he seemed amused. “I have spent so many nights looking for it I’m starting to think it’s an imaginary place. Most times my body just gives up out of sheer exhaustion.”

“And when you do sleep, it never lasts long,” said Meg. “I swear, I can hear a speck of dust falling on the carpet and it’ll wake me right up. Like I’m some sort of hypersensitive bat.”

“Do you have intensely vivid dreams?” Castiel asked. “Mine are never pleasant.”

“On good nights, I don’t have dreams at all,” Meg said. “It’s like my mind is so thankful to finally be resting it forgets to produce them.”

“Mornings are always terrible,” said Castiel. “The light just hurts your eyes…”

“Everything itches, and you get headaches,” said Meg. “People think you’re constantly hangover or something.”

“They’re not wrong,” said Castiel. “You get sympathy, irritation, contempt, and accusations of ‘not being a morning person’ like that’s a crime against humanity. There’s horror in their faces if they see you yawn at eight o’clock in the morning,”

“Or if you don’t emerge from your room all freshened up and ready to go, it’s like a personal insult to them,” continued Meg. “Sometimes I just want to scream: _‘Do you think I asked for this? Do you think I’d rather not spend every night of my life in deep, repairing slumber?’_ ”

“So you bully your brain and your stomach with caffeine and other stimulants for so long you forget what it was like to function without them,” said Castiel. “In the hopes that maybe, one day, you’ll be able to follow a rational, responsible, predictable sleeping schedule like everybody else does. Except everybody else doesn’t have to worry about even having a sleeping schedule, because there is nothing wrong with theirs, and that makes them utterly incapable of knowing what it’s like to be awake at an ungodly hour, sitting in your kitchen, talking about how much you would rather be sleeping.”

Meg wanted to stand up and hug him. It was four o’clock in the morning, and outside, it had started snowing again. She was frustrated and drowsy, she had just broke up with her boyfriend and her relationship with her sister had suffered a severe hindrance; she was basically homeless and stuck in a job that was nowhere near what she dreamed off.

But suddenly, it was like the universe had decided to start making sense.

“What?” asked Castiel, and Meg realized she was staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking away, but not trying to hold back her smile. “It’s just… it’s the first time I find someone who _understands._ ”

Castiel lips curved just a little bit, so discreetly it could barely have been called a smile.

“It is indeed a rare privilege,” he agreed.

* * *

 

After that night, something seemed to break. Or, better yet, to fit.

Meg started looking for a place the very next day. Castiel helped her go through newspapers and Craig List adds, partly because it was an excellent way to procrastinate, and partly because he didn’t want to explain her presence there to Missouri when she returned after New Year.

“I don’t want her to get any strange ideas,” he told Meg.

“Why would she?” asked Meg, confused.

Castiel muttered something along the lines of “No reason” and suggested a one-room apartment that was at the other side of the city.

“You kidding me?” asked Meg. “I would have to get up at five to be here in time!”

“You’re always up at that hour anyway,” pointed Castiel.

It was hard to tell, because Castiel had his usual deadpan on, but Meg took a step back and analyzed his expression in detail.

“What?” asked Castiel.

“You made a joke,” she pointed. She was pretty sure it had been a joke, but she was so used to Uptight Boss Mode she had to double check.

“That was my general intention, yes,” he answered. He seemed nervous for some reason. “Was it… unfunny? I’ve been told I’m not good at joking.”

“Well, you definitely need some practice,” said Meg, carefully. She was uncertain about how much she could tease this new Castiel, but she was no about to let the chance slip by. “But it was an okay attempt.”

Castiel’s little satisfied smirk made her want to kiss him. No, not kiss him; exactly, just give him a little innocent peck on the cheek. Just because he was so cute. Okay, change of subject.

Meg was still Castiel’s assistant, and during the day, she still got bored to death at her desk, although now she had the chance to go to the guest’s room and get a power nap if she felt like she was about to collapse. Castiel wouldn’t mind. He was probably doing the same thing in his divan anyway.

“Most of my writing is done in moments like these,” he told Meg the second night they met in the kitchen after they both gave up on the idea of sleeping. “Some of my best lines had come to me in the dead of night.”

Meg, who had completed her senior portfolio while on a binge of energy drinks, nodded.

“The dead of night is a weird time,” she said.

“I don’t feel it like a ‘time’,” said Castiel. “It’s more of a place to me. A strange place outside of time, that is, where anything could happen.”

“Like a box of surprises,” she said. It sounded stupid, but she was not wakeful enough to notice. “You open your eyes in the dead of night, and you don’t know what it can bring. It could be a brilliant, revolutionary idea. It could be some awful regrets or an unidentifiable fear of the future.”

“It could be a smart, interesting conversation with someone you found there entirely by chance,” said Castiel, and Meg gave him a drowsy smile.

“Flatterer.”

From then on, in a sort of unspoken agreement, every time they got up because they failed to find ‘the Spot’ or because a bad dream had woken them, they automatically went to the kitchen. The other would be there, and if not, would end up there eventually.

They made tea or sandwiches or nothing at all and just sat together at the counter or at the table. Sometimes they were too exhausted to speak, so they remained in a silence that was never uncomfortable or awkward. They knew what the other was thinking (about going to bed, obviously), and they offered their quiet support.

But most times, they talked. The topic of their insomnia was a never-ending source of entertainment, but as Meg pointed once, it probably wasn’t good for them, psychologically speaking, to get fixed on it. So slowly, they started stepping out of it, seizing each other, pushing the boundaries of things neither of them really wanted to discuss.

“Your boyfriend was a piece of work,” Castiel commented once.

“Ex-boyfriend,” Meg muttered.

But they spent a two good hours mocking every defect Luc had, which was definitely therapeutic.

“I should cry,” Meg said. “That’s what people do, don’t they? When relationships end.”

Castiel stayed quiet long enough for Meg to realize his last relationship had ended in tears for completely different reasons. But before she could take it back, he said:

“I think it is a testimony of how little you cared about that relationship that you are unable to even feel hurt about its ending.”

“It’s not that I didn’t care,” she said. “It’s more like… you ever been on a rollercoaster that goes up and up? You know it will eventually have to go down, and it will go down faster the higher you are. Maybe I’m just not feeling the fall because Luc and I were not really that high.”

She rubbed her eyes, feeling that those had to be the most idiotic words uttered in the history of insomnia, but when she looked again, Castiel was scribbling what she just said in a paper napkin.

“Where do you even keep those?” Meg asked, pointing at the pen.

“I always have one close,” he said, and kept going until the paper napkin was covered in his small, constricted handwriting, and he hat to look for his notebook. Meg went back to her room when it was obvious Castiel’s muse would not let him go back to the kitchen for a couple of hours.

In return, the following night, when Castiel was done writing and they both decided it was too early to try to go to bed only to fail, he told Meg about his family.

“I’m the younger of four,” he said. “Michael, Raphael and Gabriel all have their lives together, as our father is so keen to remind me. Michael is a lawyer, Raphael is a doctor and Gabriel has his own shop. I told him I do spend my days sitting at a desk, but he doesn’t appreciate the detail. And, of course, he’s always frown upon my… what’s he called it? ‘Sinful life choices’.”

“Woah,” said Meg. She knew there were people who thought like that, but it was the damn twenty first century. That sort of discrimination should be confined to little churches in Kansas and the Ku Klux Klan. “Well, I understand why you decided to come back early.”

“I normally try to avoid that sort of family reunions,” said Castiel. “But it’s inevitable every now and then. And of course, the only thing worse than my father’s disparagement is Naomi’s.”

“What has that poor woman ever done to you?” she asked him. “She sounds so kind in her e-mails.”

Before Castiel could answer, there was a loud explosion, and both of them jumped in surprise. Meg was thinking somebody have been shot outside and they should probably call 911, but the scandal kept going, and when Castiel turned to look at her, there was amusement in his expression.

“Fireworks,” he explained. Meg glanced at the clock. It was midnight.

“Oh,” she said. How could she forget something like that? “Oh… Happy New Year, I guess.”

Both the office phone and her cell phone started ringing, but they didn’t bother to pick them up. Castiel brought out a bottle of wine, as, like he said, it was the only night a year when it was sociably accepted to stay up and drink.

“You’ve obviously never heard of a party,” said Meg.

“Those are just a myth,” Castiel assured her, while he poured the wine. “Like the Bermuda Triangle and the Right Spot in the Mattress.”

Meg laughed and accepted a glass.

“A toast,” Castiel proposed.

“To another year gone by without following the eight hours rule,” said Meg.

“To the dead of night,” Castiel answered. “And everything in it.”

* * *

 

Meg still hadn’t found a place when Missouri came back from her winter vacation, but the maid accepted the new situation without as much as an arched eyebrow.

“She’s scheming something,” Castiel determined. “I know she is.”

“Aren’t we being a little paranoid?” asked Meg, slightly entertained by Castiel’s tribulations.

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “She keeps saying I shouldn’t be alone, and reminding me I hadn’t been with anyone since…”

He went quiet, and Meg hastily changed the topic. It was the first time Castiel made a reference to Dean, if indirect. He knew she knew. After all, she’d been in the library and seen his picture there, and they had met through Dean’s brother, so of course he knew she had to know somehow. But Meg was firmly decided to not bring it up. It would be disrespectful.

So it came as a bit of a surprise when, during the second week of her stay, and after a vicious phone fight with her mother in which Lilith pointed all the ways it was wrong for Meg to live in her boss’ house, Dean came up again in the most unexpected matter.

“Mother’s second marriage was indirectly my fault,” Meg told Castiel that night, over a steaming cup of tea. “Alistair was supposed to be treating me, but he actually just filled me with pills that made everything worse.”

“Those damn things,” Castiel nodded, sympathetic as always. “They’re as dangerous as a loaded gun to have around. I flushed them all down in a moment of lucidity the week after Dean died. He would have been so pissed at me if I…”

He stopped. Meg blinked, completely unsure of what she was supposed to answer to something like that. The enormity of what he just confessed seemed to sink in Castiel, because he shook his head and gulped down the rest of his tea.

“I… I’m going to write now,” he said, abruptly.

“Okay,” Meg accepted. “You don’t… need anything?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Meg repeated, and stood up to wash the cups. Trying to ease the moment, she added: “You have to work on your lies, too.”

The joke fell flat, and Castiel left the kitchen before Meg hit her head against the cupboard, to remind herself of how stupid she was.

* * *

 

It turned out Castiel was right about Missouri. She was scheming something.

“It’s Dean’s birthday this Saturday,” she announced one day, while Castiel was locked in the library and they were having their midmorning coffee.

Meg startled on her chair, waking _Misha_ , who had decided that since Meg was staying at his house, she might as well make herself useful and allow him to snooze in her lap.

“His… birthday?” she repeated, ignoring the cat’s annoyed hissing.

“Mary, his mother, always organizes a little get together at home,” Missouri continued. “Castiel never goes.”

“It must be too painful for him,” Meg pointed.

“Yes, of course it’s painful,” said Missouri. “But it’s a little arrogant to think it’s only painful to him. We all lost Dean. We all should be together to remember him.”

“I…”

“Maybe if he went, just this once, he’d be able to see that,” Missouri went on, throwing Meg a meaningful look.

Meg took her time to answer. She waited for _Misha_ to start snoring again, and finished her coffee with as much poise as she could gather.

“What makes you think I can convince him to go?” she asked, finally.

“You convinced him to let you stay here.”

Meg wanted to say that it had actually been Luc and his asshole attitude that did the trick and that it was only a temporary arrangement. Then she remembered she hadn’t checked Craig List in three days and hadn’t marked any more announcements in the newspaper, like she was slowly but steadily abandoning the idea of moving out, which wasn’t fair to Castiel, who probably wanted his apartment back for himself but was too polite to say anything about it, and the guilt distracted her from elaborating a coherent answer.

“I’ll… try,” she promised vaguely. Missouri looked satisfied anyway.

* * *

 

Meg brought it up that very same night, as tactfully as she could, but Castiel got mad anyway.

“Tell Missouri her good intentions are appreciated, but unnecessary,” he said, using the Uptight Boss voice she hadn’t heard in quite a while. “How is the apartment hunt going, Megan?”

Meg grimaced. She had pissed him off badly. She was about to apologize, but then she noticed Castiel’s fingers trembling around the cup of tea. She was wrong. He wasn’t angry. He was trying with all his might not to cry.

There was shock in his eyes when she extended her hand to grab his.

“Can I tell you a story?” she asked him. “It’s not a nice story. It’s the sort of story you only tell in the dead of night.”

“I’m supposed to be the storyteller,” Castiel protested meekly, but nodded.

Meg took a deep breath, and wondered how to start.

“My parents’ divorce was ugly,” she said. “Name-calling, throwing-your-things-out-of-the-window, using-the-girls-as-pawns-in-court ugly. I was twelve, and Ru was nine. She… took it badly. They were days nobody could convince her to get out of bed, or to eat. And then I’d get back from school and find her up and about, with the TV on loud while she cooked or exercised or read three books at the same time. She couldn’t focus in class or did a week’s worth homework in ten minutes, she would speak a thousand words per second or not make a sound for days, she would cry so much you couldn’t believe she didn’t get dehydrated or get so mad at the smallest things she’d just screamed until she lost her voice. The only thing constant about my sister was her inconsistency.”

Castiel shifted in his seat, and Meg understood she had just said one of those things he, for some reason, found interesting enough to write down. But she wasn’t done with her story.

“Mother would scream at her to get her shit together, and Ruby would cry some more,” she continued. “’It’s not my fault, Meg,’ she’d tell me. ‘It’s just the way I am.’ I was spending some of my first really bad nights back then, so maybe I didn’t pay as close attention as I should have.

“Well, somehow she managed to finish high school and went to college. She did fine for a semester or two. And then the drinking started. And then she was caught smoking weed in class. Alistair, our first stepfather, had to pay a really fat bribery to keep her from getting expelled. And the guys, of course. A never-ending parade of guys. I had barely learnt the name of one, and she was already on to the next one. She was with Sam for like, four full months, and that was the longest relationship she had back then.

“I wasn’t worried. ‘Everybody smokes a joint and sleeps around in college,’ I told mother when she called me about staging an intervention for Ruby. ‘You’re overreacting.’ It turned out, for once, she wasn’t.”

Meg swallowed. When had that lump in her throat formed? And why were Castiel’s eyes so intensely fixed on her? She suddenly wished she had stayed quiet. This was a family issue, why was she telling him all this? But now she had started, she couldn’t stop.

“Then, one day, I get a call at three o’clock in the morning,” she said, shivering at the memory. “I wasn’t asleep, but a call at that hour is never good news. It was Alistair. They’d found Ruby unconscious in her tub.”

“Overdose,” Castiel guessed, and Meg nodded.

“Heroin. We had no idea…”

She shook her head, to clear it from all the terrible memories.

“So I rushed to the hospital,” she continued. “Mother was outside of the room, hysterical and not making any sense, and Alistair was still trying to get a hold of my father, so they barely noticed me there. There were nurses and doctors running around, and not one of them could tell me anything about my sister, except that they were doing the best they could and that we’d have to wait. I was just… ready to strangle the next person who couldn’t give me a concrete answer.”

Discreetly, Castiel pushed a napkin her way, and Meg wiped her eyes with it. She hadn’t planned on crying.

“And then the doctor came out,” she said. “And told us everything was fine. They’d manage to save her. Next day, they packed her things and got her a place in a little rehab clinic called Salvation, where somebody finally diagnosed her with bipolar disorder. She had a relapse or two, but the last couple of years, she’s been fine. Learnt to cook. Got herself a job. She’s okay.”

“That’s… good,” said Castiel. He seemed confused, and maybe a little hurt that Meg was waving the happy ending of her personal tragedy in front of him.

“Yeah, it’s good,” she agreed. “But there was a moment, a split second, really, between the doctor coming out and him opening his mouth, where I imagined what it’d be like never seeing Ruby again. And it was like the word stopped spinning and someone snatched the floor from beneath my feet, and I just kept falling and falling… I had never been so scared in my life. I realized right there that losing her was the most terrifying thing that could ever happen to me.”

Castiel didn’t say anything while he waited for Meg to hold back her tears.

“What I’m trying to say,” she said, with a broken voice, “it’s that the most terrifying thing that could ever happen _actually_ happened to you. And that you have to be the strongest person I know just for holding it together and…”

“Meg,” said Castiel. There was a plea in his voice, like he was about to beg her to shut up. His hands were trembling even more now, but Meg squeezed them harder.

“And there’s no wonder you can’t sleep at night,” she finished.

When Castiel raised his eyes, they were dry, but it didn’t matter. Meg was already crying for him.


	8. Friends, Family and Wonderful People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Emotional chapter ahead.

“I feel stupid.”

“You look fine.”

Meg forced Castiel to stop fidgeting with his tie, and got out of the car. In the ten seconds it took her to get to Castiel’s door, he had gone from anxious to panicking.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This is a bad idea. We should go home.”

Meg just stared at him, considering hitting him for the nth time. She had convinced him to go to the Winchester’s household, she had sent his black suit to the dry cleaner, she had drove him there and she was not about to quit now that they were so close. She only had to get him to the door, and then Missouri would do the rest.

“Come on, boss,” she groaned.

“I can’t,” he decided, and he looked more like a bratty kid than like a mourning adult, so it was a bit difficult for Meg to feel sorry for him. She opened his door, grabbed his arm and practically dragged him out of the car.

“Yes, you can,” she said, as she pushed him towards the Winchesters’ door.

“No. Meg. Please, stop.”

This time, there was such desperation in his tone Meg couldn’t help but to stop in her tracks. His hands were quivering, and there was a terrified expression on his face, like a deer in the headlights who understands it’s about to be ran over. Meg immediately felt guilty about forcing him to go through this.

“Hey,” she said, grabbing his hands. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to do it.”

“I really want to go home,” said Castiel, almost begging.

“Right,” Meg nodded, already thinking about how she was going to explain this to Missouri. “Right, let’s go.”

But before they could take a step, the door opened, and a young blonde woman peered out.

“Cas?” she called. Castiel stiffened, and the smile he gave her was more like a grimace.

“Jess,” he said. “It’s… it’s good to see you.”

“Oh, my God, Cas!” Jess screamed, and ran towards them. Which was an impressive feat, considering the enormous pregnant belly she was sporting. “It’s been so long!” she added, throwing her arms around Castiel’s neck.

“You’re…” Castiel took a step backwards and blinked in confusion. “I didn’t know…”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t know. You didn’t even show up for our wedding,” Jess reproached him, though she was smiling radiantly.

“I sent a gift,” said Castiel, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Yes, very thoughtful of you,” Jess rolled her eyes. “But we would have loved to have you there.”

“You… would?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes like he did when he was confused.

“Of course, silly,” she said. “You’re family.”

That simply statement seemed to do a number on Castiel’s head, because he opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Before he could come up with a reply, another person stepped out of the house. Meg recognized him immediately: Sam Winchester, Ruby’s ex. He was wearing an expensive black suit and was just as obscenely tall as she remembered, but his shoulders seemed to have gotten even broader and his hair and sideburns were longer. There was a wedding band identical to Jess’ glimmering in his finger.

“Cas!” he screamed, a wide grin blooming in his face as he ran to hug the writer. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I… wasn’t going to,” Castiel confessed. He looked around, searching for something else to say, and his eyes focused on his assistant. “Uh… I think you know Meg.”

Sam’s smile became a little less sincere while he turned to her.

“Oh, yes, Meg,” he said. “Good to see you. How’s, uh… how’s Ruby?”

“She’s okay,” said Meg, because that was the shortened version of the story, and also, because she was pretty sure Sam didn’t really want to inquire about his junkie ex-girlfriend in front of his pregnant wife. Meg still couldn’t refrain from a little mischief. “Seems you’re doing pretty well yourself, moose.”

“Moose?” repeated Jess with a chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s an old college nickname,” said Sam, blushing. “Are you staying?”

“Nope, just on chauffer duty,” Meg shrugged, though she had taken the precaution of putting on a black dress in case she was invited. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

“You don’t have to go,” muttered Castiel, and only then Meg noticed he hadn’t let go of her hand. The look he cast her way clearly said ‘ _Please, don’t leave me alone with these people._ ’

“You sure?” asked Meg, and glanced in Sam’s direction. He was obviously awkward about that turn of events, but he said:

“I mean, you can stay if you want,” said Sam. “If Castiel wants you to…”

“I do,” said Castiel, immediately. “I… I need her here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not,” Jess said, completely oblivious to the tension around her, or at least, having the courtesy of ignoring it. “There’s plenty of room, and any friend of Cas is a friend of ours.”

That settled it. The four of them turned back to the house, climbed the stairs and entered a rather crowded living room. The amiable chatter that had been going on completely halted when Castiel made his entry. The grip he had on Meg’s hand became tighter.

“H-Hello,” he said, to no one in particular. A tall woman (Missouri would later identify her as Dean’s mother) was the first one to react.

“Cas!” she said, and walked up to him with a smile. “How are you, dear?” she asked, as she gave him a quick hug.

“Hello, Mary,” Castiel answered. “You look wonderful.”

“You dreadful liar,” laughed Mary, and then took a step backwards to analyze Castiel with a critical eye. “Oh, my goodness, you’ve lost weight!”

“Don’t look at me,” said Missouri appearing behind Mary. “I try to keep him well fed, but he just sticks his nose in his notebooks, all day long.”

“Well, it’s good to see you,” said Mary. “Come. Bobby and Jody are gonna be so glad you're here.”

Castiel’s look when Meg let go of his hand was pure terror.

“Go,” she told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel nodded, nervously, and let Mary ushered him away to where a man with graying hair and a brunette woman were standing. Missouri put a hand on Meg’s shoulder.

“I gotta give it to you, girl,” she said, smiling satisfied. “I didn’t think you’d manage it.”

“Then why you asked me to?” Meg asked, frowning.

“It was worth the shot,” Missouri shrugged. “Come, let’s make ourselves useful.”

Missouri was not a maid here, but she had the energy of twenty people together, so she had to let it out somehow. She went around the room serving drinks and snacks, with Meg following closely and trying to retain all the names and faces that paraded in front of her.

“These are Victor, and Benny,” Missouri said, pointing to two large men. “They worked with Dean at the fire station. And these are Kevin and Adam, they’re paramedics there. And these are Garth and Ash; they’re neighbors and very good friends of Sam and Dean. Oh, Jody, hello, Jody. Jody is Dean’s godmother. Her husband, Bobby, worked with Dean’s dad and Rufus (he’s late again, someone should call him) at the scrapyard.”

“Hello, how are you, nice to meet you,” kept saying Meg, shaking hands and trying to retain who was who of Dean.

“This is Charlie,” Missouri introduced her finally to the last person in the room, a short red-haired girl who was wearing a black blouse and a pair of jeans, maybe because it was the only thing black in her wardrobe. “She was Dean’s high school sweetheart.”

“Oh, please, Missouri, I only pretended to date him to gaslight my parents,” Charlie said, smiling and rolling her eyes. “I was actually dating a girl named Glinda. Dean said we didn’t fool anybody and he was right. Turned out, my parents knew all about it. But, you know, I was insecure and I asked him to help me, and he went along with it even though he had a crush on this girl, Robin. It was the kind of thing he did. He was my best friend.”

She stopped, her eyes swelling up with tears.

“I once had too much to drink at a party,” said Garth, quickly, trying to cover up the silence. “Drunk-dialed him, and he came to pick me right up. I think I c-blocked him big time, because it was when he had just started dating Cas, but he wasn’t mad at me or anything.”

Everybody chimed in, starting to tell stories about how Dean had helped them out one way or the other, how you could always count on him no matter what, how he was a stand-up guy and everybody missed him dearly.

“He saved my life once,” added Benny, and in Meg’s book, that pretty much topped every other cute anecdote anybody had of Dean. “We got trapped in a building, and a stair flight fell on me. Broke my leg in three parts and completely trashed my oxygen tank. Dean pulled me out of there, shared his oxygen with me. I told ‘im it wasn’t worth risking his life, but he insisted anybody would’ve done it.”

“That was Dean.”

“Best guy in the world.”

They were all smiling, because otherwise they would all start bawling nonstop. Meg had a lump in her throat, and volunteered to fetch the drinks from the kitchen, just to have something to do with her hands. She found Jess sat on a chair with her legs spread, in a very unladylike manner, and a hand over her stomach.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “I was just taking a moment. Just six more weeks to go, but the little guy’s getting restless already.”

“You’re having a boy,” Meg said.

For some reason, that cheered her up. The mood in the living room was gloomy, with everybody remembering someone who, as good as he was, was gone and not coming back, and Meg was on the edge of an existential crisis, because she could have been Dean’s friend had things worked out differently. She could have been out there with everybody, telling a story about that time they did something together for their respective siblings; she could say “That was so Dean” with a knowing smile, and she would have an actual reason to miss him as terribly as everyone else. It all just made her realize by just how a close margin this wonderful person hadn’t been in her life, and she was sure the pain of having lost him was somehow better than the pain of not ever having him around in the first place.

But the simple fact that Jess was there, and her skin was glowing with that cool pregnant lady aura and that she was having a boy made it all better. Like at the end of _View From Heaven_ , when Lisa visited Ben’s grave and then left the cemetery with Matt, and you knew she was going to be okay despite her terrible loss. Life went on. Good things still happened. There was a reason to keep struggling, to keep going. There were still wonderful people in the world.

“I wanted to call him Dean,” chuckled Jess. “But Sam said Dean would have thrown a fit, so we are going with Robert. Bobby’s already thrown a fit.”

“What about, uh…?” What had Ruby said Sam’s dad was called? “… John?”

“Oh, no,” Jess’ face went somber as she shook her head. “Sam hasn’t talked to his dad in years. Things’ been, well… strained between them for a long time.”

“How come?” asked Meg, before she could remind herself it was not okay to pry into that sort of stuff.

“John didn’t approve of Castiel,” explained Jess. “Dean told him he could suck it, he was marrying him anyway, and it just snowballed from there. They were mad at each other when the fire happened.”

“Oh,” said Meg. It actually made sense: if Castiel blamed himself for Dean’s falling out with his father, then of course he wouldn’t want to be around all his friends and family. As if Jess had read her mind, she said:

“I think that’s why Cas keeps avoiding us all.” She paused, reflecting, and then added: “Anyway, I’m glad he’s got you now. It’s good to know someone’s taking care of him.”

It took Meg an entire minute to process what Jess was saying.

“Oh, no,” she said finally. “No, Cas and I… no. I work for him, that’s all.”

“But you…” Jess started, frowning in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel interrupted them. Neither of them had seen come in, and Meg stupidly wondered how much had he heard. “I think… I think we should go home now, Meg,” he said, his voice lower than she ever heard it.

“Right, of course,” said Meg, before she realized that sort of exchange was probably what made Jess think they were together. “Let me just get our coats.”

Five minutes later, Castiel was saying goodbye to Sam and Mary on the door, while Meg waited by the car.

“It was good to see you, dear,” said Mary again, hugging him so tight Meg thought she was bound to break him a rib.

“Don’t go disappearing on us again, man,” said Sam. “My kid’s gonna need his godfather.”

Castiel nodded, probably because he was too emotional to say anything without breaking, and got in the car. His face was inexpressive, but for some reason, Meg was sure he was holding back the tears. She knew she was.

“Home, boss?” Meg asked softly.

“No,” said Castiel. “I-I can’t. Not right now. Drive. Just drive.”

So Meg drove.

 

* * *

 

She wasn’t exactly sure where they were going, but Castiel didn’t seem to care as long as it was a long way from the Winchester's household. They burnt mile after mile of a gloriously empty road, with the windows down although it was cold enough that some snowflakes flew in. They were having an exceptionally cruel winter, but Meg enjoyed the cold. And suddenly, she knew where she could take Castiel.

The hill was a little over an hour in the outskirts of town. Her father, always the wanderer, had found it almost by chance, on a winter day as cold as this. Ruby and Meg, then eight and eleven, had the most awesome day of their childhood, rolling down the hillside and building a snowman together, while Azazael watched over them from the car parked on the top. It wasn’t until much later that Meg found out Lilith had served him the divorce papers that very same day, and soon after that was completed, he had set off to fulfill his dream of seeing the world.

She told Castiel all that while they sat on the hood of the car, right in the same spot her father had parked on all those years ago, and he nodded absentmindedly. It was getting rather late, and she knew it’d be dangerous to drive in that weather, but she didn’t want to interrupt whatever was going on inside Castiel’s skull. So she wrapped herself in her coat, and offered him a cigarette.

“You smoke?” asked Castiel surprised.

“No, but you do,” said Meg. “Missouri told me to give you just one if you needed it. I think you need it.”

Castiel nodded, put the cigarette between his lips, and when he couldn’t turned it on because his hands were shaking too much, Meg held the lighter for him. Castiel took a long drag, closing his eyes. Meg waited patiently, watching the weak sun sinking in a cloud-covered horizon. They’d be home late. It was disturbing how easily she had come to think of Castiel’s apartment as “home”.

“Today would have been three years since we got officially engaged,” said Castiel. His voice caught Meg by surprise, and she turned to him. He was holding the cigarette, contemplating it as it burned away. “My second book had just got published, and I was already writing the third, because I was so full of inspiration… I was going to leave soon for the signing tour. It’d be weeks before we’d see each other again, and Dean was mad about it. We were arguing in my kitchen, while we made breakfast together. I told him ‘Well, what would you have me do?’ and he said ‘Marry me, Cas’.”

He giggled at the memory, and Meg could almost picture it: a young and wide-eyed Castiel, so in love and happy, not like this reclusive shadow he had become. But she realized whatever she imagined was probably far from reality. And in any case, she quite liked her Castiel, all grouchy and lonesome, with his eyes that only lit up whenever he found just the right word he was looking for and had to run to his desk to get it on paper.

 _Her_ Castiel? Okay, then.

“I don’t think he planned it,” he continued. “I told him to think it through and ask me again when he was sure he was ready to hear the answer. I was certain he was going to take it back. Two weeks later, we came here for his birthday, and out of nowhere, he went on one knee in front of all his friends and family, the very same people that were there today to remember just how wonderful he was, holding out a ring. That was the happiest day of my life.”

He swallowed loudly, and kicked the frost that had formed at their feet. He searched for something inside the pocket of his trench coat, which was light brown instead of black because it was the only one he had, and took out a little jewelry box. For some reason, Meg was sure it was the ring Dean had given him, and she was about to panic because she didn’t know if she was ready to see that, but it was something different entirely.

“Dean’s Medal of Valor,” Castiel said, passing to her so she could examine the golden insignia. It was shiny and well-kept, like somebody had polished it recently. Meg suspected Castiel had done it himself. “I tried to give it to Mary today, but she told me to keep it. She said if the fire had happened a couple of months later than it did, then I’d be widower and people would understand. But I don’t think they would. I’d always liked both men and women, but Dean said I was the first man he ever felt attracted to. Likewise, I never thought I’d find someone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with. We were each other’s exception, in a way…”

His voice trailed off. Meg was having trouble deciding what she would say: that she was sorry Castiel had lost this man he obviously loved so much, and thankful that he trusted her enough to tell her all of this, and angry at Dean’s father for making him run away from the support he needed. And also, a small part in the back of her brain held on to the “men and women” comment a little too hard, but she did her best to ignore it.

Castiel threw the cigarette away.

“Thank you for forcing me to do this,” he said. He sounded serene. Like a man who had faced his worst fear only to come on the other side unscathed and think ‘That wasn’t so bad.’

“Thank Missouri,” Meg answered, humbly.

“She’s been trying to convince to visit the Winchesters forever,” said Castiel. “But it was you who truly did it. Because you _do_ understand.”

“Well, anything for…” What? What was she going to say? ‘ _My boss, a friend, the guy I have the most unrequited crush ever on’_? She realized none of those things was strong enough to explain her relationship with Castiel. “A fellow dead of night dweller,” she finished. Yes, that sounded about right.

The smirk she had come to know appeared on his face.

“You’re gonna write that down, aren’t you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added two chapters because everything that needed to happen hasn't been able to happen in the previously planned outline. Just so the two of you reading this know.


	9. Newfound Cause

Time flew by over their heads, and February sneaked up on them unnoticed. Suddenly, the kitchen wasn’t the only place where they bumped into each other at the dead of night.

Once, Meg was allowed to stay in the library’s divan while Castiel typed, just as long as she didn’t make a sound. She tried to read, but the rhythmic hit of the keyboard calmed her brain in a way no sedative in the world could, and three minutes later, she was snoozing. She woke up to a haggard Castiel still typing, and her heart swollen at the fact she was covered by a blanket. He had stopped long enough to make sure she didn’t get cold. She felt her swelling and a shrieking little voice telling her this couldn’t be good.

A few nights later, Castiel found Meg up in front of the computer, streaming the latest season of _America’s Next Top Model_ on Netflix.

“I will never understand fashion,” Castiel declared after he brought some chips and sat next to Meg behind the desk.

“You’re not supposed to understand it,” she said. “You’re supposed to _feel_ it.”

“Right,” said Castiel, with the same tone Luc and Crowley and everybody in the world used when Meg mentioned her degree, and it was more than she could stand, because everybody else, she didn’t care if they didn’t understand, but Cas was different.

“You guys don’t get it because you have it easy,” said Meg. “You don’t have the whole wide world judging you by what you wear. Whatever a woman wears, she’s _always_ sending a negative message.”

“That’s not true,” said Castiel.

“Oh, no?” Meg rolled her eyes. “Imagine you are a woman for two second, and tell me what you’d wear in different situations.”

“Okay,” said Castiel, because obviously, imagination exercises were what he lived off. “I’m wearing a nice red dress, because I’m going out…”

“A high fashion dress? You’re so vapid,” said Meg, using her most contemptuous tone. “The money you must have spent on it it’s outrageous, what a shallow person you are.”

“Okay, then,” said Castiel, raising his hands. “I’m wearing an old pair of jeans and a simple shirt…”

“Why do you have to be so careless about your appearance?” Meg asked. “Don’t you wanna look pretty? Groom yourself a little bit.”

“I’m staying at home!” Castiel pointed.

“Somebody could still see you,” said Meg. “What if you have visits, what if your boyfriend comes over? You’ll want to look smart for him, won’t you?”

Castiel shook his head, obviously unconvinced. “I’m wearing a bikini,” he said, finally.

“Oh, my God, so indecent!” said Meg, scandalized. “You’re showing so much skin, people will think you’re a hoe.”

“But I’m at the beach,” he argued.

“Still, somebody could think you’re asking for it.”

“Okay, that’s unfair,” he said. “How is it my fault what other people decide to do?”

“It’s because you’re a woman, and you should know how you affect the men around you,” Meg said.

“Then I’m putting on a burka,” Castiel decided.

“You want people to think you’re oppressed and frigid?” she asked. “You should loosen up a bit.”

Castiel opened his mouth, maybe to give other example, but then he closed it again. “You can’t win,” he concluded.

“Exactly, you can’t,” Meg nodded, enthusiastically, because it was the first time she had gotten someone to get it. “Because even though now women can vote and have properties and get a divorce, they’re still perceived to be there for men’s pleasure and entertainment. You are not supposed to feel beautiful unless you’ve beaten and broken your body to fit in the mold of what is considered beautiful, and if you are not up to those standards, your ugly ass should be ushered away out of sight. Fashion is the ultimate statement of that whole absurdity, because it perpetuates an impossible ideal. I studied fashion because I wanted to change that. Not just because there should be a broader idea of what is beautiful, but because you should feel beautiful despite that idea.”

“That is incredibly ambitious,” Castiel pointed, but Meg detected a trace of admiration in his voice. She was glad the office was so dark he couldn’t see her blush.

“Yeah, well, that was my cause,” said Meg. “You know, the reason I got out of bed every morning even though I only had three or four hours to sleep.”

“And what happened?” asked Castiel. “How come the fashion industry hasn’t suffered a revolution at the hands of Meg Masters?”

His tone was teasing, but she knew he had a genuine interest, if his fixed blue stare was something to go by.

“Because I grew up,” said Meg, and she was well aware of how bitter that sounded. “Five years working at _Vanguard_ , seeing how the system works… well, it kinda made me want to find a less ambitious project.”

“And have you?”

It took a minute for Meg to answer, not because she hadn’t understood the question or really reflected upon it, but because the real answer was rather embarrassing, so instead, she went with a half-joking:

“I’ll let you know.”

“Please, do” said Castiel. “I wouldn’t want to see all your passion go to waste, Megan.”

The conversation was edging some very dangerous path, so Meg cleared her throat and Castiel changed the topic.

“So how’s the apartment hunting going?”

He asked that every now and then, and Meg took the hint that the guy obviously wanted his place for himself again. Not that she minded. That was a temporary measure after all, it always had been. And yet, she kept rejecting places because they just weren’t as spacious as this, or as well-placed as this, or as beautifully decorated as this (she had even gotten attached to the creamy walls by now).

Simply, all those apartments didn’t have Castiel in them.

Meg was used to him by now: his periods of absolute silence, his groans and bad-tempered answers when he was focused on his writing, how he talked to his cat when he thought no one was listening, his irrational little quirks, like not picking up the phone even if he was standing just by it, and not eating jam because he found it, and she quoted, “unsettling”. Missouri was right, despite his cold and brooding exterior, Castiel was really an easy guy to get along with.

And of course, she wouldn’t trade the sleepless nights they spent together for anything in the world. Because late at night was when Castiel looked all disheveled and yawning, and she found it adorable despite herself. Because late at night, when they joked together about the “daylight people”, Castiel smirked just a little, like he couldn’t bring himself to give a full-blown smile, and he looked like such a cocky little shit when he did, it just made Meg want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. Because late at night, under the impersonal white light of the kitchen, Castiel was able to tell her things that made him angry, and made him sad, and made his eyes get a weird shine Meg had come to call “the blue fire”.

And she knew she had no business thinking about him like that, but how was she supposed to go anywhere else knowing she might wake and not have his company to wait the sunrise with her?

That was another thing she couldn’t explain without making a complete fool of herself, so she just said again:

“I’ll let you know.”

“Why don’t you just stay?” asked Castiel, point-blank.

Meg had to stop the streaming in a not very flattering take of Tyra Bank’s face, and turned to look at Castiel to make sure she actually had heard what she heard.

“Really?” she said, when Castiel didn’t elaborate. “You want me to stay here?”

Castiel looked all coy and avoided her gaze, and for a moment, Meg was pretty sure he was going to take it back, but then he said:

“If you want to.”

Meg _did_ want to. And that was pretty much the bottom of it. There was one little issue, though.

“Okay,” she accepted. “But half the expenses of the house are on me.”

“Meg, _I_ pay you,” Castiel pointed, amused.

“Well… pay me less,” she said, and Castiel let out a chuckled.

“It’s an unusual situation, I am aware of that,” he said. “But I have faith we can navigate it until…”

“Until what?” asked Meg, because Castiel was in no apparent hurry to finish that sentence.

“Until something changes, I guess,” he said, shrugging.

 

* * *

 

Something changed one afternoon, around two weeks later. Castiel had filled three notebooks in his neat and small handwriting, and had told her the new book was finally beginning to shape up. That day, he emerged from the library, found Meg watering her bonsai, and without any sort of warning, put his arms around her waist, lifted her up and spun around with her a couple of times.

“What’s gotten into you?” Meg asked him, laughing like a child.

“It’s finished!” Castiel declared, and the smile on his face was one of pure joy. “Well, the first draft, but that’s always the worst one.”

“Oh, that’s great, boss,” Meg said, smiling, because his happiness made her happy. “I’ll finally have some good news to report to Naomi.”

“Nah, I’ll like to take some time before she starts pestering me about sending her a copy,” Castiel said. “Let her sweat for a while. Tonight, just put on something nice. We’re going to celebrate.”

“Tonight?” Meg repeated. “You sure?”

“Yes, why?” asked Castiel. “You had other plans?”

“Not really,” Meg lied. She had actually planned on watching an _America’s Next Top Model_ marathon and not thinking about what day it was.

“Come on, then,” Castiel said. “How’d you like sushi? I hadn’t eaten sushi _in ages_.”

Meg put on a pretty red blouse and her purple leather jacket, nothing too fancy, and fought with her chopsticks all through dinner while Castile rambled on and on about how this book had been a nightmare at the beginning, and how he had finally found the rhythm, and how everything just seemed to fall into place.

“Of course, I couldn’t have done without you,” said Castiel.

“Without me?” asked Meg, partly confused and partly flattered.

“Yes,” Castiel smiled. “You reminded me what my real inspiration’s always been.”

“Sleepless nights?” asked Meg. Castiel almost choked on his roll because of the laughter.

“People,” he clarified. “People always have the best stories, and I need to listen to them, I need to watch them and take in their words and their voices. I can’t really write if I’m isolated, because that way I’ll end up writing about myself, and no one would want to read that.”

“I would,” said Meg, with a little shrug, and Castiel laughed even harder. At that moment, a waiter wearing a kimono approached them with a bottle and two glasses on a little silver plate.

“Sake,” she said. “Courtesy of the house for the happy couple.”

“Oh, no, we’re not… no, we are just… ” Meg and Castiel tried to say, but the waiter ignored them both, smiling like she knew something they didn’t, and just walked away.

“Weird,” said Castiel, frowning. “Why would she think that?”

“No idea,” lied Meg.

Of course it was completely lost on Castiel that it was Valentine’s Day and they were having dinner together, so the staff had all the reasons in the world to mistake them for a couple. But that was just the sort of thing Castiel would overlook, and Meg wasn’t about to remind him. They were having a lovely evening, and it was the first time she’d seen him so at ease.

“In any case, thank you very much, Meg,” said Castiel, after they toasted with the sake (‘cause none of them was about to pass up on free liquor).

“What happened to Megan?” she asked. He hadn’t called her that in a while, and frankly, she was starting to miss it.

“Well, Missouri informed me you didn’t fancy being call your full name?” Castiel frowned.

“I don’t mind if it’s you,” said Meg, trying not to make anything out of the fact Castiel cared enough about how she wanted to be called to ask Missouri.

Castiel looked at her like he didn’t know what to with that information, so instead he popped a roll into his mouth and asked:

“So… have you had news of Luc?”

“He tried to call,” she said, treading carefully. She wasn’t going to mention he had tried to call that very same morning and had sent her a very corny e-card, like he still felt entitled to remind her they had been in a relationship. For what Meg was concerned, it was over, and it had been over way before she walked into that living room. “We have nothing to talk about. The way I see it, he not only cheated on me, he also took advantage of my emotionally vulnerable sister.”

“Despicable,” Castiel agreed. “And have you talked to Ruby?”

Meg toyed with her chopsticks.

“She’s fine,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “Mother would have informed if she wasn’t.”

“But have you forgiven her?” insisted Castiel.

“Why is it so important to you?” Meg asked, defensively, and Castiel decided the wisest thing would be to back down from the question.

“I don’t know,” he said, sincerely. “I’m just hoping for a happy ending, that’s all.”

“You? A happy ending?” Meg chuckled. “You, who sustain your book hoarding habits with the tears of your readers?”

“That’s not true. I write happy endings,” Castiel protested. “And I don’t think anybody’s cried.”

“I cried,” said Meg. “All the way through _View From Heaven_. And at the end of _Twist and Shout_ … that was just… how could you do that to Misha and Jensen? They were such nice people!”

She realized how ridiculous it sounded to be talking about fictional characters like that, but if you had the chance to ask God why he had been so mean to a couple of good friends, wouldn’t you?

Castiel’s smile managed to be amused and sad at the same time.

“That was not how it was supposed to end,” he confessed. “In the first draft, it ended when they were old. They had dinner with Jared and his family, and then they went home and dance slowly to an Elvis record. It was the cheesiest thing ever written in the history of the English language.”

Meg was about to say she was okay with cheesy and ask what the hell had happened to that ending. And then she realized Castiel must have been working on that book around the time Dean died, and of course he would have put all his misery into it. That explained a lot.

“Well, if it helps, I think the one you went with was a good ending,” she said, apologetically. “Gut-wrenching, devastatingly depressing. Made me lose all the will to live for a day or two. But if it hadn’t been good, it wouldn’t have affected me at all.”

“Thank you,” said Castiel. “You are probably the only one who feels that way, though.”

“I’m gonna take you home right now, and I’m gonna force you to go through all your fan mail,” Meg decided, and suiting the action to the word, she stood up and grabbed Castiel’s arm. “Come on.”

The cold had finally started to let up, so it was a beautiful and clear night to walk arm in arm under the city lights, with a stomach full of sushi and a joke about pretty much everything. They laughed like maniacs all the way back to the apartment, for a reason or the other, and Meg was pretty sure the sake had gone to their heads, but it didn’t matter. Castiel’s laughter was throaty and shy, like he hadn’t used it in a while and was unsure about how to properly do it, but to Meg, it was more precious than any music in the world.

“I like how you laugh,” she said, because the filter between those private thoughts and her tongue had disappeared completely. Castiel didn’t seem to mind.

“I like your voice,” he said. “It’s low and deep, like you’re always whispering, like every word you say is a precious secret only a few selected people are allowed to hear.”

They were standing in the building’s door, and Castiel had the key in his hands, but froze, like he was unsure what to do with them, like he just realized he too had said something he wasn’t supposed to. Meg only grinned at him, because she was on too much of a good mood to let what they were supposed and not supposed to say ruin the night.

“Nobody has ever complimented me on my voice,” she said. “You get points for originality.”

“I should probably write that down, then,” he said as they got in and waited for the elevator. “Original thoughts are hard to come by.”

“Oh, don’t you dare get all writer on me now,” she said, and of course she was a bit tipsy, because otherwise, she wouldn’t have held Castiel’s hand and definitely wouldn’t have put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “I finally snatched you from your notebooks, I’m not gonna let you go back to them so easily. You said you needed to take in people’s words, so that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Castiel didn’t complain and didn’t try to let go of Meg’s hand while they walked down the hall an entered the apartment.

Ten minutes later, they were both in his room, changed into their pajamas (well, the old clothes they used as pajamas, because they had both come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth wasting money on clothes they weren’t going to use anyway), with a bottle of wine that maybe wasn’t a good idea to have after all the sake, with _Misha_ on Castiel’s lap and the letters the writer had received but never cared to open scattered all over the sheets. Meg read them out loud to him, one by one, starting with the newer ones and going back, until they reached her favorite one, the one by the gay boy.

“” _I truly believe, Mr. Novak_ ,’” Meg read, “ _’that you had saved my life_.’”

“That can’t be right,” said Castiel, shaking his head. “He did that himself.”

“You should write back telling him that,” Meg suggested.

“Perhaps I should,” Castiel nodded, and emptied his glass.

At some point, Meg put her head on the pillow, thinking about resting there for just a second, but when she opened her eyes again, the clock told her it had been two hours. Castiel was still going through the letters, under the dim light of his lamp.

“You’re gonna hurt your eyes,” she groaned at him.

He didn’t answer, absorbed by whatever he was reading. Meg smiled to herself, because his eyes had that special shine again, the shine they had when he was inspired and she just knew he was already redacting answers to all those letters. Congratulating herself, she let the sleep wash over her.

The following morning, they woke up face to face. The letters were mostly on the floor, someone (probably _Misha_ , who now snored by his master’s lap like he didn’t have a care in the world) had poured the rest of the bottle of wine in the carpet, and Missouri would probably have their heads for it. But they couldn’t bring themselves to care. They just laid there, side by side, staring into each other’s eyes, trying to find the right words to put a proper end to the atypical night they’d just spent.

“Meg,” he said, finally. “Megan.”

“Yes, Cas?” she answered. She didn’t realize it was the first time she called him that. Not ‘Mr. Novak’ or even the more endearing ‘boss’. Just ‘Cas’, like all the wonderful people who still tied him to Dean did.

“I hadn’t slept this well in years,” he said, and he laughed, because the idea was ridiculous somehow. Meg couldn’t hold back her smile.

“Neither have I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously feed like I have to dedicate this chapter to the authors of Twist and Shout, [gabriel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriel/pseuds/gabriel) and [standbyme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/standbyme/pseuds/standbyme). In fact, I should dedicate the whole fanfiction to them. In any case, the opinions expressed by Meg in this chapter about that story closely resemble mine.


	10. Not On My Watch

“Are you crazy kids sleeping together?”

The absolute lack of hesitation in Missouri’s tone, the way she was casting a severe look at them both and how she kept her hands on her waist, like a middle school teacher ready to punish them if they lied about their obvious crime, was simply hilarious. Both Castiel and Meg let out a laugh, which only irritated Missouri even further.

“It’s impossible to sleep with him,” Meg said, with a shrug, while she poured three cups of coffee. The biggest one for Castiel, because she knew that was the day he started working on the third draft and would need the extra caffeine. “He snores.”

“I most certainly do not,” said Castiel, offended, passing Meg the sugar without even having to ask because he knew she liked her coffee sweet. “And in any case, you drool.”

“No, I don’t!” Meg said, putting the butter down right next to him. “Besides, you talk in your sleep.”

“Megan Masters, you are a liar,” Castiel declared, picking up his coffee and his toasts. “And I will not stand here to be falsely accused. Good morning, ladies.”

And with that, he went to lock himself in the library.

“I hope he doesn’t pour coffee on his papers,” said Meg. “He’ll have a stroke.”

“Oh, God, don’t even say it!” said Missouri, hurriedly knocking on the table’s wood. “Hey, you hadn’t answered my question,” the maid added when she noticed Meg giggling at her frown. “Are you sleeping together?”

Meg stirred her coffee, staring intensely at it like she was searching for all the answers to life, the universe and everything. At least, for the right words to calm Missouri’s very justified suspicion. After all, she cleaned the place; she must have noticed Meg’s bed was made most mornings.

“We’re not so much sleeping together as staying up together,” Meg said, finally.

Which was, as a matter of fact, true.

After Valentine’s Day, Meg had found herself gravitating towards Cas’ bedroom more and more often. He was always up, like he was waiting for her. Sometimes they read, or Meg read aloud for them both, because Castiel insisted she had a better voice for it, or she read in silence while Castiel scribbled in his notebooks.

Most nights, though, they just talked, the same way they had talked when they met at the kitchen, except now they were laying instead of sitting, and they fell asleep in the middle of a conversation, and the next day they couldn’t quite remember what they had said. The important thing was that Castiel wasn’t alone when a nightmare woke him up, and Meg wasn’t alone while she waited for sleep to come to her in vain.

And they weren’t alone in the mornings. Meg liked waking up by Cas’ side, watch the outline of his back under the sheets, and see his stubble grow, and his hair all messy.

“Don’t you find it weird?” Meg had asked him once.

“What thing?” Castiel had said. “The fact we share a bed despite not having any sort of intercourse?”

Well, Meg wouldn’t have put it so bluntly, but yeah, that was pretty much what she’d been trying to say. Castiel had shaken his head.

“I don’t believe relationships are defined by whether they are sexual or not,” he’d said, simply, and Meg just had to marvel at the man’s ability to let out a phrase like that without blushing or stuttering.

“We have a relationship?” she’d asked, a bit confused. When had that happened, exactly?

Castiel hadn’t been so stoic while answering to that.

“Why, of course,” he’d said, and this time Meg had notice the reddening of his ears. “You are my friend, Meg. And my roommate. And my companion in the awful place that is the dead of night.”

“Fellow night dwellers,” Meg had smiled. Of course, what was she expecting?

“We go by different rules,” he’d said. “Daylight people wouldn’t understand.”

He was right about that. Meg didn’t expect Missouri to understand.

“Well, I’d be careful with that,” the maid said, accepting the cup Meg was handing her. “I don’t want to go picking up the pieces.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Meg. It took her a second to register that that was the wrong answer. She should have said ‘There is nothing going on’ or ‘We’re just keeping each other company’ or even a less truthful ‘We’re only friends.’

Missouri opened her mouth, but the doorbell interrupted her. She put two fingers under her eyes, pointed at Meg with them, signifying their conversation wasn’t over, and then went to answer. Meg kept drinking her coffee, musing over what Missouri had said, when…

Three things happened at the same time: a man’s voice called “Missouri!” in an endearing tone, Missouri’s voice called “You!” with utter contempt and _Misha_ hissed and meowed as loud as if someone had stepped on his tail. Meg got up and went to the living room automatically, worried that Missouri might need help.

“Come on, is that any way to say hello?” asked the man at the door with a thick British accent. He had a wide and charming grin, and was opening his arms, clearly expecting Missouri to run and hug him.

Instead, Missouri picked up the disinfectant and sprayed him with him, like he was some sort of giant insect she was hoping to kill. The man covered his face with his arms, protesting and cursing, and as if that was the signal he had been waiting for, _Misha_ jumped with his claws out and sank them on the stranger’s leg. The man waved his arms, crying for help, and noisily stumbled on the coffee table, before he finished on the ground at Meg’s feet, who was still deciding whether to laugh or be horrified.

“What’s going on?” Castiel’s voice came from the corridor. “What is that noise?”

“He’s back!” Missouri said, wrinkling her nose like she was talking a particularly disgusting brand of herpes.

“Who’s back?” asked Castiel, and a second later, he appeared at the corridor and stared at the man on the floor. “Balthazar?”

“Hello, Cassie,” said Balthazar, standing up and grimacing because _Misha_ still refused to let go of his leg. “I was in the neighborhood and – get off, you bloody thing! – and decided to pay a visit to my… why, hello, hi,” he stopped, because apparently he had just noticed Meg’s presence. He extended a hand towards her. “Sir Balthazar Mortcombe, at your feet. Pretty literally.”

“Meg Masters,” Meg said, giving him her hand and deciding to be amused.

“Charmed to meet you,” said Balthazar, and instead of shaking her hand, he deposited a light kiss on her knuckles. “So very charmed, indeed.”

“Balthazar,” said Castiel, picking up _Misha_ , who still waved his paws in the air like he planned to go for Balthazar’s eyes next. “You know I don’t like unexpected visitors.”

“Well, that’s exactly why I’m dropping by, my dear,” said Balthazar. What was the word for people with that sort of smile, the smile that said ‘ _I own the world and everything in it’_? “I’m here to tell you about the dinner party.”

“What dinner party?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes.

“The one you’re throwing in my honor since I’m only in the city for one night,” said Balthazar. “Oh, don’t you worry about anything. I’ve already invited everybody.”

Castiel stared at his friend like he too wanted to rip his eyes or some other vital organ out.

Smug, Meg decided. Yes, that was the word.

 

* * *

 

It had to be said, on Castiel’s behalf, that he fought Balthazar every step of the way.

“I don’t want a dinner party!”

“But Cassie, darling, we haven’t gotten the old gang together in such a long time!” Balthazar pouted.

“I don’t care, Balthazar,” Castiel protested. “I’m working on my book; my agent’s breathing down my neck…”

“Oh, but that’s exactly why I invited Naomi as well,” Balthazar said. “She said she’d be delighted to come here by invitation, for a change.”

Castiel fought Balthazar every step, but Balthazar was just one of those relentless persons who refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. At some point, he grabbed Castiel’s arm and dragged him to the library, telling him if he was so decided to get some writing done, he might as well do it before the guests arrived.

“Now, don’t you worry about a thing, dear,” Balthazar said, closing the double doors after he practically pushed Castiel in. “Meg, Missouri and I have everything under control.”

“I’m outta here,” said Missouri, and proceeded to disappear, which was probably the wisest thing to do; because Meg was pretty sure she was perfectly capable of murdering Balthazar and then complain about cleaning the bloodstains.

“Well, Meg and I, then,” said Balthazar, unabashed. “Wonderful Meg, beautiful Meg… I don’t suppose you know how to cook, do you?”

Since Meg didn’t think her instant macaroni and cheese was the kind of food Balthazar had in mind for the sort of event he was proposing (or, better yet, imposing), they spent some good two hours calling catering services.

“What do you mean we should have made our reservation at least a week earlier?” asked Balthazar. He had taken off his black jacket, and was barefoot walking up and down the carpet in his gray V-neck shirt, under _Misha_ ’s predatory stare. “I would very much like to talk to your manager now, miss. Yes, I will wait.”

Balthazar gave Meg a look that clearly meant ‘ _Can you believe these people?_ ’ and despite being certain Castiel and Missouri would hate her for it, she couldn’t help but to like the guy.

“Yes, hello,” said Balthazar, and started explaining their situation again: they had an impromptu dinner party about to happen and they needed enough food for at least ten people by eight o’clock. “My name is Sir Balthazar Mortcombe… yes, kind sir, I am a Knight of the Queen. My family and I are very fond of visiting this part of the country, since we have so many friends here, and I would recommend you heartily to every one of them… aha. Aha. Why, I’d appreciate that a lot!”

He gave Castiel’s address, and then fell on the couch with a satisfied expression on his face. “Mission accomplished,” he declared.

“You’re not really a Knight of the Queen, are you?” asked Meg, who had a very clear idea of what an English aristocrat looked like, and Balthazar didn’t fit in it, not by a long shot.

“Oh, but I am,” Balthazar said. “I have a castle and everything. Well, a mansion, right in the middle of London. It’s beautiful in summer. You should visit.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” said Meg. “I’ve always wanted to travel to Europe. I dream about going to Paris.”

“Huh,” said Balthazar, and fixed his light gray eyes on her. “That’s a new one. Dean had a terrible fear of flights; he said anywhere he couldn’t get walking or driving wasn’t worth visiting.”

“You knew Dean?” asked Meg, interested. How the hell had Castiel come to have a friend like Balthazar?

“Oh, yes, my nose had an once-in-a-lifetime chance to make acquaintances with his right fist,” Balthazar laughed. “That was the time he got tired of, as he called it, ‘me, messing with his man’s head’. He had quite the temper. I do hope you are not jealous type, dear.”

“Oh, I’m not… I’m not _with_ Cas,” Meg clarified, too hurriedly for it to sound true. “I mean, I live with him, but I’m not… we’re not… I’m his assistant,” she finished weakly.

“Assistant? Is that what they call it these days?” Balthazar asked. “I can never keep up with American slang. Anyway,” he added, standing up before Meg could say another word, “I have an hour or two of jet lag to sleep away. Do you mind waking me up when the guests arrive? Thank you, you’re a sweetheart.”

He kissed her on the cheek, and then he sauntered towards the guests’ room ( _her_ room, Meg reminded herself) like he owned the place.

Perhaps Balthazar wasn’t so nice after all.

 

* * *

 

At eight o’clock exactly, the doorbell rang. Meg, who hadn’t had time to ask Balthazar what sort of clothes she should wear, answer it in her best pair of jeans and favorite blouse, and immediately felt terribly underdressed. The short man on the other side was wearing a tuxedo, and the look of horror in his face made her realized he was thinking _he_ was overdressed.

“Oh, God,” he said, passing a hand through his dark locks. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry… pretend you didn’t see me… I’ll go home and change and be back in thirty minutes…”

“Chuck!” called Balthazar behind Meg. He was still wearing his V-neck shirt and jeans. He immediately pulled the other guy in for a hug. “How have you been?”

“Good, Balt, good,” said Chuck, nervously. “I was just telling… her…”

“Meg,” Balthazar introduced her off-handedly. “She’s Cas’ ‘assistant’” he said, drawing air quotes. “This is Chuck Shurley, Cas’ editor.”

“Yeah, hi. Well, I was just telling Meg…”

“Don’t be silly,” said Balthazar, and with a fluid movement, he took off Chuck’s bowtie. “There. You’re fine. Come on in. Meg, dear, do you think we can open some wine while we wait for the others?”

The others, as it turned out, were all writers or painters or some sort of artist. Pamela was a sculptor and her on-and-off girlfriend Anna (Balthazar told Meg they were on one of their ‘honeymoon stages’) was an actress. Then there was Ion, who had an art exhibition going on in a gallery with a name Meg couldn’t even begin to pronounce, and Hester, who had met Castiel back in college, in his creative writing classes, and was now the editor-in-chief of a literary magazine Meg had never even heard off. Hester wasted no time in making her feel terribly uneducated for not knowing about it.

“Castiel published several short stories there,” she said. “He is such a good friend.”

She had brought her most recent protégé with her, a squalid kid called Alfie.

“He writes the most delightful poetry,” Hester boasted. “Unlike yours, Balthazar.”

“Always the charmer, Hester,” Balthazar laughed. “Tell me… have you even checked if this one is legal?”

Alfie choked on his wine, and Meg wondered if she could go to jail for serving him alcohol.

Naomi was the last to arrive, wearing an impeccable gray suit, with her brown hair tied in a bun so tight it was incredible her blood could still circulate.

“So you’re the new girl,” were the first words she pronounced upon entering the apartment. Her eyes examined Meg with laser precision, and her mouth twisted in a gesture of annoyance. Meg was beginning to understand Castiel’s aversion to her, but her mother had enough stuck up friends like her, so Meg new how to treat her.

“Mrs. Ruthson, we’re so glad you could come,” she said, displaying her most complaint smile. “Castiel will be pleased to see you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” said Naomi, walking into the dining room where everybody else was already picking at the first dish of the catering service. “Look, he’s not even here to receive his guests.”

“Ah, Naomi, you know our Castiel,” said Balthazar, putting a glass of wine in her hand. “He probably stayed up all night, and is now napping while he pretends to write.”

Meg felt a stab of jealousy in her gut so intense it scared her. How did Balthazar know what Castiel did when he couldn’t write? How did he know about Cas’ sleeping habits? That was supposed to be _their_ thing!

“I still remember while he lived with me in London,” Balthazar chuckled. “He would wake me up at four o’clock in the morning to read me the last passage he had written. He was so bad, the poor dear.”

“But he’s improved a lot,” Anna said, tucking a red lock of hair behind her ear. “ _View From Heaven_ was just beautiful.”

“I’m afraid I’ve stopped reading his books,” said Balthazar, shrugging. “After that less than flattering portrayal he did of me in _Twist and Shout_ …”

“Oh, you’re Sebastian!” Meg exclaimed, and it was only when everybody turned to stare at her that she realized she’d done it out loud. She hurriedly covered it up by taking a sip of her glass and clearing her throat.

“I don’t get it. If you’re mad at him, why do still visit him?” asked Chuck.

“Because I’m British,” said Balthazar. “We do not fight with our friends. We throw embarrassing dinner parties at them.”

Everybody seemed to find that infinitely amusing, if their fake-sounding laughter was anything to judge by. Meg didn’t listen to what came next. She was already on her way to the library, decided to show all those so-called friends of him just how great Castiel was.

The door was ajar, and Castiel was on his desk, with his hands over his face, like he had the most terrible headache ever.

“Knock, knock?” Meg called.

“Oh, Meg,” he startled, and hurriedly put a paper in his writing machine. “Yeah, I was just…”

“About to get up and join us, I expect,” Meg said.

“I-I don’t think I would make good company,” Castiel stuttered. “Balthazar seems to have it under control, why don’t we just…?”

“Oh, hell no,” said Meg, and approached him to grab his arm. “You’re not leaving me alone with those people.”

“You could always hide in here with me,” Castiel proposed, and as tempting as that sounded paired with Cas’ fingers just barely touching her hand, Meg was on a mission.

“Come on, are you going to let Balthazar bully you out of your own dining room?” she asked.

“It’s what I always do,” said Castiel, somberly.

“Well, not on my watch,” said Meg, and pull Castiel so he would stand up. “Let’s go.”

Castiel stood firmly over the carpet, and let out a little giggle.

“He used to say that,” he commented.

“Who?” asked Meg, confused.

“Dean,” Castiel clarified. “ _’Not on my watch’_. Whenever he said that, you knew he meant business.”

Right. Dean.

His name seemed to roll out of Castiel’s tongue with more and more ease lately. It wasn’t that Meg didn’t appreciate the fact he trusted her enough to talk about Dean, it was just… sort of like a punch in the gut to realize Castiel would never love anyone (let alone Meg) that way again. And knowing she was a terrible and selfish person for being jealous of a dead guy didn’t really help at all.

“Alright, then,” Castiel said. “Let’s do this.”

They left the library hand in hand, but for once that didn’t cheer Meg up.


	11. Don't Expect Him To Love You

Balthazar was clearly taken aback when Castiel made his entrance, but he recovered rather quickly, and started a long dissertation on Castiel’s aversion to technology and modern TV shows.

“Well, in fact, I have recently started to find the appeal of these, as they call them, ‘marathons’,” replied Castiel, with a little smirk. “Meg and I devoured two seasons of _America’s Next Top Model_ the other night.”

The heavy silence that fell in the dining room was interrupted by Naomi’s drunken giggle.

“No wonder you hadn’t written a word,” she said. “If you’re binging on garbage TV…”

“It is a very entertaining insight on today’s state of the fashion world,” Castiel defended himself. “Meg has some very compelling theories about it.”

“Oh, really?” Balthazar asked. “We would so much like to hear all about them, Meg. Maybe you can even give me a tip or two.”

Meg emptied her glass, suddenly wondering if this whole ‘beating Balthazar at his own game’ idea was doable after all.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d be interested,” she said. “I mean, after all, a man with your style doesn’t need any sort of advice.”

“You mean, because he only wears V-neck shirts,” said Pamela.

“If the Royal Guard had V-neck shirts in their uniforms, Balt would have joined them like that,” added Anna, snapping her fingers. Meg felt a rush of gratitude towards them.

“Yes, well,” said Balthazar, feigning modesty, with a grin. “We can’t all rock tuxedos like Chuck does.”

Chuck blushed and couldn’t come up with an answer, and for the moment, the teasing was over, and they talked about the art projects they all had going: Alfie’s poetry book (“It will be a critic success, I’m telling you,” said Hester and Alfie, who hadn’t said a word in the whole evening, just nodded, visibly overwhelmed by the attention), Anna’s upcoming play, and of course, Castiel’s book.

“I am particularly proud of this one,” said Castiel. “I think is one of my best works.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Naomi, and then grimaced. “If I ever get to read it, that is.”

“Why, of course, Naomi,” said Castiel, calmly. “In fact, I was just finishing the draft I want you and Chuck to revise. I got a little… carried away, but it’s ready if you want to take it home.”

Naomi, who Meg was starting to suspect was a workaholic, seemed to sober right up, and insisted until Castiel brought a bundle of papers joined by a clip. She then dragged Chuck away, telling him they needed to start checking it out immediately.

“You do know they’re not going to read a word, don’t you?” asked Hester once Chuck and Naomi were out of the picture. “Naomi’s so trashed they’ll probably end up sleeping together.”

“I’m counting on it,” said Castiel. “Luckily, the post-coital shame and freak out will last them long enough to keep them both off my back for a month or two.”

Balthazar’s strenuous cackle was something to behold.

“Oh, Cassie, Cassie, such a sneaky little bastard!” he said. “And here I thought you hadn’t learnt anything from me.”

“I learned quite enough,” said Castiel. His hand had gone rigid on Meg’s.

“Oh, I bet,” Balthazar said, raising his eyebrows, and Meg immediately knew Castiel had said something wrong.

Sure enough, Balthazar began to tell some awkward stories he probably wouldn’t have told had they not been on the fourth bottle of wine. For someone who claimed not to care if a relationship was sexual or not, Castiel seemed to had had quite a lot of sex during his sabbatical year in Europe, six months of which were in London, and more specifically, in Balthazar’s bed, or in the bed of some woman named Bela, and sometimes, in Castiel’s bed with both of them at the same time.

“Ion, you and Cas had a short fling too, didn’t you?” asked Balthazar. “Tell me, did he do that thing with his tongue…?”

“I think we should go home now,” said Anna, standing up.

“Right behind you, babe,” said Pamela, and they both hastily, but politely refused staying over for coffee. Meg couldn’t say she blamed them.

“And then there was April, if I’m not mistaken,” Balthazar kept naming Castiel’s affairs. “And Daphne, she was pretty.”

“We dated for a while in college,” pointed Hester. “But of course, all of that was before Dean.”

“Ah, yes, Dean,” said Balthazar, and his smile became forced. “Wonderful, mesmerizing, irreplaceable Dean.”

Castiel poured more wine into his glass, but Meg discreetly put a hand on his arm to prevent him from taking it to his lips. She suspected alcohol wasn’t the best way for him to deal with this Inquisition.

“When he called me to tell me they were engage, I simply couldn’t believe it,” continued Balthazar. “Castiel, the bohemian? Castiel, the future best-selling writer, stuck in a small suburban house with some low-class grunt?”

“He wasn’t some grunt,” Castiel mumbled, through gritted teeth. His grip got so tight around Meg’s hand that it hurt her, but she didn’t let go. She had forced him to come and confront this motherfuckers, the least she could do was stay by his side.

“Bela and I made a wager of a hundred pounds that it wouldn’t last,” continued Balthazar. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“And look at him now!” said Hester, raising her cup of coffee at the couch where Meg and Castiel were sitting. “He does have a knack to pick people who are beneath him, doesn’t he?”

There was a loud clatter of porcelain, and the room went awfully quiet. Castiel, pale and breathing heavily, had hit the coffee table with his fist, probably to avoid punching Balthazar’s or Hester’s face.

“Hest…” said Alfie. His voice was quiet and low, as weak as he looked. “Hest, come on. You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s just go.”

Hester remained immobile, eyeing Castiel, maybe wanting to apologize, but Castiel didn’t look back or moved at all. Hester finally got the message.

“Right. Of course,” she said, standing up.

“I should be going, too,” said Ion.

“I’ll… open the door for you,” said Meg. She looked at Castiel, expecting some sort of signal, maybe, but the writer was staring at the cups on the coffee table like they were to blame for everything that was wrong with the world.

The elevator ride was probably the most awkward moment in Meg’s life, and she had a bipolar sister with a drunk-dialing habit and a cheating ex boyfriend under her belt. Both Hester and Alfie stayed in the back, quiet as kids who had been told off by their parents, while Ion mumbled half-hearted apologies.

“You have to forgive Hester… she has no head for alcohol… I’m sorry the evening took such an awful turn… you and Castiel should come and see my exhibit, I would be very glad to have you there…”

Meg kept nodding, distracted. Finally, they reached the lobby, and the three of them got in a cab. Only then Meg dared to breathe, suddenly wondering if it had been a good idea to leave Cas and Balthazar alone and if it was safe to come back. She looked up the building’s façade, like she expected to hear or see what was going at their apartment (and no, it wasn’t _their_ apartment, it Cas’, she was pretty aware of that, thank you very much).

She didn’t have to wait long for the answer. She had just decided to come back up when the elevator’s doors opened and out stumbled Balthazar. He had to hold onto the wall to keep himself from falling, and after a second of consideration, Meg’s compassion outweighed her anger at him.

“Oh, Meg,” slurred Balthazar when he saw her. “Beautiful Meg, brave Meg… let me take a good look at you, ‘cause I don’t think we’re going to see each other again.”

“What do you mean?” Meg asked, while she offered him her arm to help him keep balance all the way to the street.

“Castiel has made it very clear I have crossed one too many lines this time,” Balthazar’s grin was no longer charming. It was actually kind of sad, like the last thing he wanted to do was smile, but didn’t know how else to deal with what he had done. “He said that if I ever show up in his life again, he’ll make sure mine ends painfully and in a pool of blood. I’m paraphrasing, of course. He’s too much of a gentleman to actually make that threat.”

“Serves you right,” Meg said. She wasn’t feeling _that_ compassionate. “What in the world made you think it’d be a good idea to talk about Dean like that?”

“I guess it’s too cowardly on my account to blame the alcohol, isn’t it?” Balthazar chuckled, and there was a sort of decadent desperation in that sound. “I wanted to hurt him,” he confessed, when Meg didn’t say a word. “Only a little bit, of course. Only a fraction of what he’s hurt me. You… mind if a sit for a second, dear?”

Before Meg could say anything about it, Balthazar dropped on his ass on the building’s steps, and stayed there, with his face buried on his knees. Just when she was beginning to think maybe she should check his pulse, he spoke again.

“That stupid Sebastian,” he said, without looking. “You know what I hate about him? That he got me right. That’s what he does. He seizes you up and puts you on his books, and all this time, you thought he couldn’t see through you, but he can, and now the fucking world can see you too. Yes, maybe I’m not the most trustworthy person in a crisis, but it’s not my fault he would never have chosen me to begin with.”

Meg still said nothing. She hugged herself, because the night had suddenly grown quite cold. She knew what he was talking about: in the book, Misha was agonizing in the hospital, and Sebastian, who had been with him since Jensen left, decided to give up on him the moment Jensen showed up again. She had hated him for it; she was sure he had just been looking for an excuse not to watch Misha die.

But now she understood him a bit. It wasn’t easy to love someone who never loved you back. Like he could read her thoughts, Balthazar spoke again.

“He will always choose Dean,” he mumbled. “I could have given him the world, but he chose Dean. Even after he died, he kept choosing him.”

He raised a pair of glassy and empty eyes at her.

“And you are a fool, my dear,” he declared, “if you expect him to love you even a fraction of what he loved Dean.”

And maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the cool breeze, maybe it was her ever present lack of sleep, but Meg felt a little light-headed, and had a revelation about how exactly her relationship with Castiel worked.

“I don’t expect him to love me at all,” she said, only half-caring if Balthazar listened or understood.

It was the simplest, most terrible truth, and she had no qualms about admitting it. It was never about Castiel loving her back because she knew quite well, way before Hester and Balthazar told her, that he would never let go of Dean and that she was beneath Cas in so many ways.

No, this was about her and her cause, about keeping that wonderful being safe and happy and writing his books. God knew Meg had never been an altruist, but she loved Castiel without any expectations of reciprocity, and if all she ever got in return were a bunch of dark nights spent in his company, she was surprisingly okay with that.

Balthazar tried to laugh, but all that came out was a strangled, depressing noise.

“Maybe you’re wiser than I thought,” he said.

A taxi was coming down the street, and Meg signaled it to stop. She got Balthazar to his feet, and made sure he told the driver his hotel’s name. Her mind flew back to the night (was it gonna be three months and something already?) when she had done the same thing for Ruby. Balthazar waved languidly, but Meg didn’t wave back. She was already flying back inside; worried about Castiel’s emotional state after such a disastrous evening.

 

* * *

 

Meg found him in the kitchen, doing the dishes with an absent gesture. He didn’t seem to hear her come in.

“Everybody got in a cab safely,” she informed him. He nodded, pouring the rests of the wine in the sink. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” Castiel answered. He didn’t sound okay, but she knew that pushing it wouldn’t throw any results.

“Do you need help with that?”

“No,” he said, and that meant he wanted to be left alone.

“Alright,” she said. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

He made no indication as to whether he wanted her in his bed or if he wanted to leave him alone for the time being, so Meg assumed that the best thing was to give him space. He would call her if he needed her.

She was about to leave the kitchen when she heard the water stop running.

“It’s not true, you know?” he said.

“What thing?” she asked, softly.

“What Hester said,” Castiel clarified. “You are not beneath me. Not in any way. Not at all.”

“It’s okay, Cas,” said Meg. She didn’t mean to be humble or modest. She just knew that Castiel was only saying that to make her feel better. “You don’t have to apologize for her.”

“That is not what I’m doing,” said Castiel, turning to face Meg. “Hester was wrong to say that, but I’m not in the habit of owning up to other’s mistakes. I just want you to know that is not true. Not in the least.”

Meg remained quiet, waiting for Cas to continued. After a moment, he leaned back in the counter with a sigh.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

Meg shrugged. She would have liked to explain the epiphany she had downstairs, but she was no writer, and the words simply wouldn’t come to her. So instead, she said:

“I know what I am, Cas.”

“Yeah?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “And what are you, exactly?”

“I’m… a mediocre, insomniac, personal assistant who’s given up on her dreams and it’s just going through the motions,” Meg pointed. She didn’t mean for him to pity her; she was merely stating a fact. “And you’re an amazing writer who changes people’s lives, and creates beautiful stories. I’m just thankful to be by your side, to make your life a little easier. And if that means enduring some scorn from your friends now and then, well… I’m a though girl. I can take it.”

How about that? Those were some pretty accurate words.

Castiel stared at her for a long while, but Meg was used to his long, silent stares. So she just smirked at him.

“I have something for you,” Cas said finally, extending his hand towards her. Meg held it without hesitation.

Cas led her to the library, and from one on the multiple drawers in his desk, he extracted a stack of papers.

“This is just the second draft,” he said. “I was going to wait until Naomi read the newest one, but…”

“Cas,” Meg stood there, dumbstruck, incapable of putting an order in all the thoughts suddenly rushing through her brain. “You want me to read your book? Before it’s finished?”

Castiel merely took a step forwards, and handed the draft to Meg.

“It… would mean a lot to me if you gave me your honest opinion,” he said. “Naomi will cut my throat if she finds out. No one is supposed to read my books before they’re published, except for her and Chuck…”

Meg was overwhelmed. She meant to say “I’m no literary critic.” She meant to say “Are you sure?” She meant to “Thank you.” But her mouth had gone dry and her hands were shaking.

“Why?” she managed to articulate. “I mean, why do you want _me_ to read it?”

“Because it’s about you,” said Castiel, simply. “Well, not about you, but you… you inspired it. And I need you to see… especially after tonight, I need you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“Cas, this is…” Meg swallowed and looked up to him, frowning as she tried to discern something in his eyes. “How much wine did you drink?”

Castiel chuckled. “How is that relevant?”

“Because I don’t want you to regret this when you sober up,” Meg said. The papers felt heavy on her hands, like she was carrying something priceless. And in a way, she was.

“I won’t,” Castiel assured her. “I promise. Just read it. Please.”

“Okay,” Meg said. She didn’t need all that much convincing. Her favorite author had just handed her his new book, after all.

Cas smiled, and without adding another word, he pulled her close for hug. Meg had to stand on her toes to put an arm around his neck and hug back as she balanced the draft in her other hand. Castiel’s body was warm, and his lips soft when he kiss her lightly on the temple. It was the most intimate gesture they had shared, and they slept in the same bed on regular basis. Meg felt like laughing out loud. He was right. Nothing about their relationship was conventional. And she just couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Well,” he said, after letting go off her. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Cas,” said Meg. She stayed long enough to watch him sit in his desk and pull one of his notebooks. He was going to spend that night with his writing, and well, so was she.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Meg was sitting in her bed, a cup of tea in her hand and the draft on her lap.The typescript title read “ _DAYLIGHT PEOPLE_ ”, which made her giggled like an idiot. Cas had been using that expression for a while now, and she should have known it had something to with this.

Her fingertips brushed the edge of the page, hesitating. For some reason, it felt incredibly wrong to go any further, like she was spying on something private.

But Cas had explicitly asked her to read it. And she had said she would. With a sigh, she passed the title page, and found two small lines at exactly the center of the page. For a moment, all she could do was wonder why had Castiel wasted an entire page on them, and then the words sank in:

_To Meg,_

_Who got me through one hundred sleepless nights._


	12. ... But If You Try, Sometimes You Get What You Need

The story was quite simple: two estranged sisters, Rachel and Katie, lost their flight due to a storm and ended on a road trip back to their hometown to assist to their father’s funeral.

Meg recognized some of the anecdotes that recounted the sisters’ past, like the one with the snowed hill, and that time Rachel walked in on Katie having sex with Rachel’s boyfriend. And yes, Katie was battling depression and was prone to break into tears, and Rachel was a tea drinker who had trouble sleeping at night and was desperate to catch some sunlight. But Meg couldn’t say with complete honesty she could see herself and Ruby on them…

“Well, you know what the great philosopher Jagger used to say,” said Rachel in chapter two after Katie complained about having to spend twelve hours trapped in a car with her. “You can’t always get what you want.”

That had Meg paying attention.

Rachel had a menial job as a secretary, which she hated, but accepted it due to being the only thing she thought was capable of doing. Rachel muttered under her breath when what she really wanted to do was lash out at people. Rachel was a passive-aggressive bitch, basically, and was just as irritated as Katie, but kept her temper under control and her opinions quiet for the sake of maintaining a fragile truce with her sister.

Katie, on the other hand, was explosive and talkative, and spent the good part of the first five chapters getting on Rachel’s nerves, until it was pretty obvious she was provoking her on purpose, testing her limits, seeing what it would take to make her sister mad at her.

“I wish you would scream at me,” Katie said on chapter six, after they had a blowout and got stranded on a secondary road. “I really wish you would say out loud what you’re thinking. You do the same thing Dad did. You turn your back on everybody because you think that will give you peace.”

“What do you want?” asked Rachel. “You want me to fall apart? ‘Cause that ain’t gonna be pretty. And it certainly won’t be peaceful.”

Meg was slightly sick at this point. It was like staring at a funhouse mirror. Rachel had all of her flaws: her frustrated deference, her resignation to the fact her dreams might never come true, her stupid calmness that was actually eating her alive and keeping her up at night from all the words she’d swallowed through the years.

She felt angry. She felt betrayed. And most of all, she felt ashamed. She knew all those things about herself, yes, and she had allowed Castiel to see them, because she thought they were friends. And he had put them in the goddamn book _for everyone to see_ , just like Balthazar said he would. All of the sudden, the guy didn’t seem like such a colossal dick.

But as it was usual with Castiel’s writing, she couldn’t put the book down.

Katie had her own demons, too, though they weren’t as subtle as Rachel’s: her inability to hold down a job, her drinking problems, her refusal to admit she might have a mental illness out of fear of being rejected by her family. Some more things happened; the sisters kept travelling, arguing, laughing, crying and remembering their childhood, their adolescence and the circumstances that had led them to drift apart.

On chapter fifteen, the last of the book, they finally arrived at the funeral, but that was the least important thing. What was important was that they had reached an understanding. Castiel wouldn’t have been Castiel if he had finished it with everything neatly tied up with a bow, so obviously Rachel and Katie still had issues to solve. They returned the rent car, the thing that had brought them together, and promised to call each other the following week.

As Katie walked away at the airport, Rachel had a thought about how if you try; sometimes you get what you need. And then she basked into the sun until it was time to board her plane.

Meg would have sneered at the sentimentalism of whole thing, if the last lines of the book hadn’t been blurry from her itchy eyes, and her mind hadn’t been heavily giving in to the darkness.

 

* * *

 

A ray of sun tickled in her forehead, but Meg just pulled the sheets over her head to block it. It was too cold to get out of bed, anyway. They were supposed to be in spring, but nobody had told the weather. She was just about to sink into a sweet unconsciousness again when an unholy screech that sounded a lot like _Misha_ when they tried to give him a bath penetrated her skull. Next to her, Castiel groaned, took a pillow and hid his head underneath it.

“Cas,” she complained. “That’s your cellphone.”

“I know it’s my cellphone,” said Castiel. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“It’s rude not to pick up,” Meg pointed.

“Well, it’s rude to call this early in the morning,” he answered.

Meg forced her eyelids open and checked the clock on the wall. It was almost one o’clock in the afternoon. And that wasn’t Cas’ clock, that was the clock that was in the guest’s room, _her_ room.

“Cas?” she asked, sitting on the bed. “What are you doing here?”

“Avoiding my responsibilities,” said Castiel, still with his head under the pillow, so all Meg could see was the outline of his back. He was still wearing the blue shirt from the night before.

“Yeah, I get that,” said Meg, snatching the pillow out of his hands. “What I’m asking is why are you doing it _here_?”

Cas blinked several times and then squinted at Meg like he wasn’t completely sure he understood the question.

“Uh… I don’t know,” he admitted, finally. “I finished writing and came to see if you were up, but you weren’t, and you had dropped the draft on the floor, so I went to pick it up, and I guess I just…”

He didn’t have to continue. The thought of Cas too tired to get to his room and instead quietly falling asleep next to her filled Meg with a sort of overwhelming joy and tenderness she wasn’t sure how to handle.

“Okay,” she said, starting to move instead. Movement was good. Movement she could deal with. “I’m gonna make breakfast… or lunch. Brunch. Whatever.”

“Meg,” Castiel called her before she even finished getting out of bed. “Did you finish it?”

Meg had to breath deep a couple of times to steady her heart.

“Yeah,” she said. “I finished it.”

“And?”

There was a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes and his hair was all disheveled. He was normally grouchy in the mornings (or after he just woke up), but today, for some reason, he was happy. Relaxed. All the anguish from Balthazar’s shenanigans was gone, all the concern, vanished. And that’s when Meg realized that he was eager to hear her opinion, which he probably expected to be semi-articulated, and not the waterfall of feelings and wild thoughts that stumbled through her mind.

So she said the first thing she knew was truth:

“You did it again,” she said. “You got me reading all night long.”

“Okay, but what do you think?” Castiel insisted. “I included some of the anecdotes you’ve told me…”

“Yes, I noticed that,” said Meg.

She kicked the sheets aside, and stood on the carpet, pretending to look for her socks or her shoes or something in front of her, because she simply couldn’t face Cas’ childish excitement.

He noticed anyway.

“You hated it,” he said, and the disappointment in his voice was heartbreaking. When Meg turned to him he was burying his head in his hands. “I knew it. I should have asked you first…”

“No,” Meg said, quickly kneeling on the bed to put a hand on Castiel’s arm. “No, I didn’t hate it, Cas. How could I hate it? You’re amazing.”

“But you’re bothered by it,” Cas guessed, and he seemed ready to go on his knees and apologize to Meg. She couldn’t see him like that.

“It wasn’t the anecdotes, Cas,” Meg explained, taking a moment to organize her thoughts. “It was Rachel. She, uh… she hit a little too close to home.”

Cas frowned, visibly confused.

“Honestly, it was like you vivisected me and put all the worst of me on her,” she continued.

“No,” Cas shook his head. “I-I… tried to put the _best_ of you in her, Meg.”

“Yeah, you better follow that up with a compliment,” said Meg, with a void where her stomach used to be. “Because if you think _that_ is the best of me…”

Castiel quickly grabbed the stack of papers, and started flipping through them.

“Here,” he said, pointed at a line of dialog. “This is when Katie tells her about her diagnosis and suicidal thoughts, how she was scared they wouldn’t accept her.”

“Yes, I remember that,” said Meg, not sure what Castiel was trying to say. “Rachel tells her that’s ridiculous, that she’ll always be there for her. What else is she supposed to say? Katie’s her sister.”

Castiel stared at her. A smiled flickered in his lips, and then his frown deepened.

“You… you really don’t see it?” he asked. Meg shook her head, still unsure. “Rachel doesn’t give up on people,” Castiel explained, standing up and taking a step closer to her. “On everything else, maybe, but not on the people she loves. Just like you didn’t give up on Ruby. Or your mother…”

He stopped. His hand had slipped over the cover, and his fingers were now barely grazing hers. Meg held her breath. She had a pretty clear idea of what was coming next, and she was trying to prepare mentally for it, but when Cas looked up again, his blue eyes piercing into hers, she was completely disarmed.

“Or me.”

Meg’s heart started pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it, but luckily her brain forced her to remain focused.

“Cas,” she said, and it was a plea. She didn’t think she could keep hearing that.

“I’ve been trying to say this for a while, but I couldn’t find the words,” said Castiel. “Some writer I am.”

“Don’t say that,” Meg answered, because _that_ she could argue to the end of times. “You’re brilliant, and…”

But she couldn’t keep talking, because he had pulled her close to him, and now she had her face hidden in his neck, holding on to him for dear life. Castiel started rocking slightly back and forwards, like he was dancing to a melody only he could hear. It was only after several seconds that Meg realized he was trying to soothe her, because her cheeks were wet and her shoulders just a little shaky.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “I’m sorry the book upset you. It was meant to be a thank you, and I messed it up…”

“A thank you?” Meg said, and her voice came horrible broken instead of sarcastic as she meant it to. “For what? I live in your apartment rent free.”

Castiel’s laugh was like a purr, a small vibration that began in her chest and went up all the way towards the lips he had pressed against Meg’s temple.

“I was so alone…. you’ve given me so much,” he said, softly running his fingers through Meg’s long hair. “Your infinite patience, your invaluable company. And you’ve never once asked for anything in return.”

“I’m not… I don’t… Cas,” Meg didn’t know what she was trying to say, but luckily she didn’t have to finish it. Cas cellphone blurt out another bloodcurdling scream that made Meg jump out of Castiel’s arms. “Who the hell is that?”

“Naomi,” Castiel explained, not looking even slightly guilty for assigning his agent a ringtone that sounded like the agonic shrieking of tortured souls.

Meg covered her mouth with her hand, and let out a chuckle that must have seemed too much like a sob, because Castiel started apologizing profusely again, and that was simply way too much for her. She hugged herself as wave after wave of laughter ripped through her lungs.

“Meg?” Castiel asked, sounding concerned. “Meg, are you okay…?”

The fact that Castiel didn’t understand why she was laughing was even more hilarious, and Meg had to sit on the bed because her knees were trembling, and she was out of breath. It still took her several minutes to collect herself, and after she did, it was just a lot harder to remember why she had been so scared.

For wonderful reasons she wasn’t about to question, Cas felt the same she did. That was all Meg really needed to know.

The phone rang again, and before Cas could ask anything else, she went to pick it up.

“Hello, this is Castiel Novak’s phone,” she said. “He thinks he’s too much of a hotshot to answer himself, so you’re just gonna have to talk to me.”

Naomi sighed, clearly annoyed. “Put him on the phone, will you?”

Meg handed the phone to Cas with a radiant smirk. “By the way,” she told him. “I quit.”

“What?!”

That was all Castiel had time to say before Naomi started shouting at him from the phone, a circumstance Meg seized to get out of the bedroom. She had around two minutes before Castiel found some excuse to hang up on Naomi, and she used every second of it to get the coffee maker started.

Castiel followed her a minute and a half later, with the cellphone still in his hand and an expression of utter fear in his face.

“What do you mean you quit?!” he asked, speaking very fast. “What happened? What did I do…?”

“I’m also moving out,” Meg added, and put a cup of coffee on Cas’ hand before that sank in.

He took a long gulp before turning to look at her, a lot calmer.

“Why?” he asked simply, and he seemed so hurt Meg couldn’t keep up the charade much longer.

“Because I want to ask you out, you big baby writer,” she said. “And I don’t want to do that while you’re still my boss and my landlord.”

“Oh,” he said.

For a man who took pride in writing thousands of words every day, that was an incredibly underwhelming answer. Castiel blinked a couple of times, and drank some more coffee, while he processed Meg’s words.

“I…” he started, but Meg cut him off.

“Look, I know you are never going to love anybody like you loved Dean,” she said, looking at anywhere but his face. “And that’s okay. It really is. I’ve been tiptoeing around this – whatever _this_ is – ‘cause I thought it was one-sided… but now you said… and I really hope you meant that…” Meg stopped mid-sentence and inspected Castiel’s face for a reaction. “You did mean that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes I did. Of course I did,” said Castiel. He finished his cup of coffee, and placed it on the counter. Then he took a deep breath. “I never thought… after I lost Dean, I didn’t think I would ever feel like this again. And then I walked, into my library an there you are, with your voice like a whisper and your eyes darkened from the lack of sleep…”

Meg wished she could’ve handled words as well as Castiel did, she wished she could let him know just how important he was to her too. So she did it in the only way she could think of: she took a step forwards, she stood on her toes, and kissed him.

Castiel didn’t react right away, and after a few seconds, Meg tipped her head backwards as if to asked if that’d been okay. Castiel nodded, like he’d understood the unspoken question.

“You’re right,” he said. “I can’t love you like I loved Dean. But I can love you, like I love _you_ right now.”

And then he kissed her again.

Castiel’s lips were soft against hers, and his stubble tickled her cheek. Meg nibbled his lower lip, holding onto him because her knees felt weak. She was dizzy and a bit groggy, and still not completely certain that this was happening for real instead of in her head. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t imagined what it’d be like to stand so close to him there was no air between them, to get lost on the sensation of his hands against her skin.

She wasn’t prepared to feel them _everywhere_. He pulled her closer, one arm around her waist and his fingers buried in her hair, then stroking her neck gently, and then slowly caressing her shoulders. It was like he was making sure she was there, solid, tangible, not vanishing as soon as he opened his eyes.

He broke the kiss first, breathing deeply as he held Meg’s face in his palms, a thumb on her cheek moving in circles. Meg stared into his eyes, stupidly thinking they looked nothing like the eyes she had first met in their interview. Those eyes were cold, impersonal, while these were molten blue, shining almost feverishly as he leaned closer for another kiss.

This time there was nothing tender about it. Castiel kissed her open-mouthed, craving, like a thirsty man who approached a stream of clean water for the first time in weeks. Meg responded in the same way, with the blood buzzing in her ears and her heart beating so fast and loud he must have felt it in between the suddenly very annoying clothes. Her fingers moved automatically, unthinking, towards the buttons of his shirt and…

Castiel pulled back, and held her hand to stop her. Meg wanted to ask what she’d done wrong, why he was avoiding her gaze all of the sudden, but Castiel explained himself in a broken whisper:

“I… I haven’t been with anyone since Dean died,” he confessed. “And I haven’t been with a woman since… well, a while before that.”

“Oh,” said Meg, relieved she wasn’t the problem. “Well, I’m sure the mechanics are still the same, Cas,” she tried to joke. Castiel chuckled, and brought their foreheads together, but didn’t kiss her again.

“Is it… is it okay if we don’t rush this?” he asked.

Meg would have said yes just because of how adorably hesitant he’d sounded, but she also considered it was a fair request. There were a lot of things they still had to clarify before taking any step further into… whatever this thing was. She dithered at the edge of calling it a relationship, simply because at this point it would be very complicated to call it that.

“Of course,” she said. After all, slowly, steady and nightly seemed to be the natural rhythm for them. “After all, I’m in a weird time of my life right now. I’m between jobs and homeless…”

“Yes,” Castiel groaned, as his cellphone started howling once again. “And my agent apparently has a very strong opinion she needs to deliver about my new book…”

“Cas,” Meg called him just as he was about to disappear into the bedroom. “I’m still not sure how is Rachel supposed to be a compliment.”

Castiel let the call go to voice mail (because he obviously preferred to explain the psychological and philosophical implications of the story in length before dealing with Naomi) and smiled at Meg from the other side of the room. He was standing right next to the window, barefoot and with his shirt wrinkled, bathed in the light of a lazy sun, and suddenly Meg understood the purpose of the creamy walls: it was to make the room as bright as possible, so its insomniac inhabitant could see as much light as he could during his short days and long nights.

“Well, you see, Rachel is a bit of a quitter,” Castiel explained, in a rough voice. “And Katie is a bit of a mess. But during their darkest moment, they hold on to one another because… they are each other’s daylight.”

Another wail reverberated in the living room, and with a grimace, Castiel picked the call and muttered a defeated: “Yes, Naomi…”

Meg stood right where she was. _Misha_ started rubbing against her leg, but Meg didn’t move until the cat meowed in protest. She picked him up, and headed back into her room. She could hear Castiel’s muffled argument with Naomi coming from the library, and he would probably need more coffee later. But right now, she too had an important call to make.

She accommodated the cat on her lap, and waited. The phone only rang a couple of times, but she already knew what to say.

“Hello?”

“Heya, Ru.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everybody!


End file.
